


Colombia

by Angel_with_an_assbutt



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton-centric, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, Poor Clint, Protective Phil Coulson, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-03-11 17:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 35,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3331991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angel_with_an_assbutt/pseuds/Angel_with_an_assbutt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's first solo mission as an agent of SHIELD was a simple one, take out a drug lord in Colombia. Easy.....right? In Clint's world what can go wrong will go wrong, making a simple hit turn into a fight for his life as he tries to escape Colombia with his body and sanity intact. </p><p>**Pre Blackhawk**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arms Wide Open

**Author's Note:**

> Alright! This is a Clint-centric fic set in my universe. On a timeline it is pre-Budapest. But I'm not really writing in chronological order (my bad) Lot's of Clint and Phil in this one! Hope you all enjoy!

_Swish, thud. Swish, thud. Swish, thud._ His hand reached back to draw another arrow, growling in irritation when he realized his quiver was empty. His footsteps echoed off the walls of the empty target range as moved from target to target pulling his arrows free, noting in the back of his mind that each arrow was buried, dead center, in every target. With his quiver full again he returned to the line, pressing a button next to him which started the targets in motion. 

He nocked an arrow and drew it back, relishing in the feel of his sore muscles, released a deep breath and let the arrow fly. Before it even had a chance to hit the target he had another drawn as he sighted down the shaft at his next target. He pushed himself harder, his hands nearly a blur as the arrows rained on the targets. The last arrow buried itself halfway into the target with a dull thud, but still the archer was not satisfied. 

Clint Barton, codename Hawkeye, never missed a shot. But tonight wasn’t about the practice, tonight he was running from the demons that chased him. Sleep had proven itself nearly impossible most nights, the only relief he could find was at the bottom of a bottle or at the mercy of a pill, but even then the silence was only temporary, and he found he hated himself even more in the morning. 

So he shot his bow, losing himself in the endless pull and release. With his bow there were no faces to haunt him or voices to taunt him, there was simply his beautiful piece of weaponry and a man. And so night after night he found himself at the range, pushing himself until he was on the brink of collapse, sometimes even past that point. 

There had been more than one occasion on which he barely was able to make it back to the maze of vents running through SHIELD’s base where he stayed before he blacked out. Even then his reprieve didn’t last more than a few hours before the faces and voices began swirling around his head again; he found himself jerking awake panting for breath, sweat pouring off of him, the familiar weight of his blade pushed out as if to ward off any attack. 

Tonight’s voices had been particularly vicious, the comfort his bow usually brought denied, his body practically vibrating with a dark, restless energy. Knowing he would get no rest tonight he started towards the targets once again, gathering his arrows, welcoming the pain his screaming, cramped muscles brought. 

His hand stilled, halfway through pulling out an arrow, as a face flashed into his mind, the face of a young woman who turned on him with tear filled brown eyes. _Why? Why did you kill him? He never hurt anyone._ And she was right, her father was a lawyer, a good wholesome apple pie, white picket fence, living the American dream, type. 

But he had been nosey, pushing and snooping too closely for the local crime syndicate’s liking, so the hit had been ordered. One million dollars in exchange for one man’s life. One simple shot for him, and a big payout. However he hadn’t accounted for the daughter who walked through the door just as the arrow flew through a window and buried itself in the man’s throat. He died in her lap as her brown eyes overflowed with tears and her sobs echoed through the room. 

Clint wasn’t sure why he had watched this interaction, after all it was still a clean hit, he hadn’t been compromised, but he found himself unable to move from his position as his eyes took in the young woman’s grief. After being numb for so long this kind of emotion was foreign to him. It wasn’t long after that the nightmares began, going from a handful every once and awhile, to an alarming frequency. 

A snap brought him back to the present, he glared angrily at the back half of one of his arrows gripped tightly in his hand, which was shaking slightly, the other half still embedded in the target. He fought the childish urge to fling the broken piece across the room and scream. He took several deep breaths, trying to calm the panic rising in his chest. He pulled the broken arrow from the target, scowling as his hand still shook, then glanced at his watch as he started back towards the line. 

4:08. The green numerals glowed up at him. _Damnit, Phil is going to be at my room any second to wake me up for morning training._ He had been doing some extra training with Phil each morning as a challenge, since many of the recruits in general training were no match for the kid who had been a contract assassin for three years already. Clint was pleasantly surprised when he found the older man was much quicker than he looked, due to his past as a boxer before he was recruited to SHIELD. 

Clint was sure Phil had caught him down here in the early hours of the morning more than once, as every so often he could feel another presence in the room, but he was always too focused on beating the guilt out of himself to bother seeing who it was. If Phil knew anything he never let on, although Clint wasn’t necessarily much of the conversing type anyways, preferring to keep his dark thoughts to himself. Speak of the devil. Clint thought as his highly attuned senses knew the moment someone entered the room. 

“You’re early Barton, I suppose the saying ‘there is a first time for everything’ is correct.” Phil chuckled at his little joke as he moved closer to the archer, noting his shirt was plastered to his body from sweat and his posture seemed a little more tense than usual. He sighed sadly in his mind, when was the kid going to open up? He knew Clint spent more time on the range or track than he did sleeping.

After a little peek in Barton’s quarters revealed that the bed was untouched, the only personal items in a small duffel at the end of the bed, Phil wondered if the kid ever slept. All the recruits joked behind his back that he was a ghost, not needing food, water, or sleep apparently. But Phil knew better, as the archer turned to face him he could make out the deep lines of exhaustion around the kid’s eyes, and the tight line of his shoulders a tribute to the aching muscles underneath. 

"Looks like you got a head start on this mornings practice. Ready for some hand to hand? I happen to have a surprise for you.” Phil barely concealed a smile at the curious look Clint shot him, making him look very much like the 21 year old kid he was, the darkness in his eyes gone for a brief second before the mask he wore like a second skin slipped back into place. Clint hit a button, resetting all the targets before tucking his bow on his back and following Phil up to the training gym.

................................................................................ 

SHIELD’s training gym was completely deserted, no doubt due to the early hour, as most general training didn’t begin until 7am. Clint glanced carefully around the gym, trying to see what Phil could possibly have planned for him, he wasn’t overly fond of surprises so he wanted to be prepared.

“Well, since it seems like you’re already warmed up want to get right to it?” Phil asked the archer over his shoulder as he walked over to the raised sparring ring off to the far side of the gym. Clint tried to keep the relived expression off his face, but judging from the smirk on Phil’s face he didn’t think he was successful, so he just nodded and stepped up to the ring, pulling his shoes off before climbing under the rope. 

He tossed a quizzical glance back at Phil when he noticed the other man wasn’t joining him in the ring, but Phil just smirked again at him. Clint was about to tell him where he could shove that smirk when he started speaking. 

"You know I’ve been training you since you obviously weren’t being challenged by the other recruits, but you’re starting to get too good for me.” Clint let his own cocky smile show, thinking maybe he would be getting the morning off, and maybe he could finally get a little bit of sleep. 

“And that’s why I went and found you a new sparring partner.” The smile slid right off of his face as the hair on the back of his neck stood up, his senses screaming that he wasn’t alone in the ring. Clint spun, hands up in a defensive stance, his jaw nearly dropping as he took in the red-haired woman now in front of him. He could have sworn they were the only people in the room. He glanced at her again warily, there weren’t many people who were able to sneak up on him, he was hoping it was just the exhaustion throwing off his senses, she couldn’t be that good.

“Barton, meet Agent Romanoff. You’ll be sparring with her from now on. Best of luck….” Phil turned his back heading for the chair not too far off from the ring to watch. “You’re going to need it.” He added under his breath, chuckling. 

Clint’s eyes traveled over the woman’s petite frame before meeting her large emerald eyes as she shot him a flippant grin that said he was going to get his ass kicked and she was going to enjoy every second of it. He couldn’t stop himself as he lifted his eyebrow as if to say ‘give me your best shot.’ There was no way this tiny little thing was going to give him a challenge. 

She sprang into motion, closing the space between them before he even completed his thought, delivering a staggering blow to his left ribs even as she planted her foot into his right instep in the same breath. Clint was barely able to duck his head back as she kicked up, her foot swiping through the air above his nose. He lifted his right forearm up to block her next shot to his ribs when suddenly she grabbed tight to his arm then dove between his legs, pulling his arm with her. 

He felt himself falling forwards but was able to correct his balance and somersault himself back into a standing position, thanks to years of acrobatic training from his time at the Carnival. The startlingly beautiful red-haired agent posed crouched in front of him, and to his surprise winked at him before catapulting herself up, her thighs wrapping around his neck as her momentum drug him to the floor. 

As her grip tightened around his throat he found himself thinking wryly. _If I had to die, this wouldn’t be a bad way to go, wrapped in this gorgeous woman._ He knew she had him pinned, with one move of her thighs she could break his neck in this position. After a second more she released her grip and was on her feet a second later, hips swaying as she went for her water bottle in the corner. 

The sound of Phil's slow clapping rang out through the empty gym, Clint’s eyes traveling to his, noting the sparkle of humor in the man’s eyes. He let out a disgusted sigh and pushed himself to his feet, rubbing at his neck absently as he faced Phil. 

“Looks like you’ll have plenty to learn from Agent Romanoff.” He smirked and glanced at his watch. “And you still have time for a couple more rounds before general training.” Clint barely restrained a groan as he caught her eyes again, the gleaming green orbs full of mischief. This was going to be a long day.


	2. I Stand Alone

Phil nearly winced as he watched Clint slam into the ground for the fourth time in a row. It was obvious the kid was off his game, his reactions slow and his attempted jabs sloppy. He couldn’t help but wonder how long the kid had been at it before he found him down on the range, a quick glance at his watched revealed the two had been training for close to an hour and a half, and it was obvious Clint needed a break. 

“Alright, alright kids. Time to break it up.” Phil moved closer to the ring stopping them just as it looked like the archer was about to be pinned by the red-head again. His shirt was plastered to his skin with sweat and Phil could just make out the trembling of his limbs, a true sign of how far he had been pushed. Natasha on the other hand was barely breathing hard, a light sheen of sweat coating her porcelain skin. 

She nodded once to Phil then shot a cocky grin over her shoulder at Clint as she climbed under the ropes and snagged a towel seeming to melt into the shadows of the empty gym. Clint managed to stay upright until she disappeared, his knees buckling as soon as he felt she was gone. Phil’s eyes shot open in shock as he watched the archer go down, barely managing to scramble under the ropes in time to grab hold of Clint’s shoulders, preventing him from face planting onto the mat. 

“Take it easy kid.” Phil soothed him gently, completely expecting to receive a dark glare as Clint pulled out of his grip. Instead he was completely blown away when Clint actually leaned into his touch, letting out a low moan. Phil’s hands moved over the archer’s body, slightly panicked, checking for an injury. 

He had seen the kid with a bullet in his leg and a stab wound to his abdomen, but not once had Clint leaned into his touch or appeared vulnerable in any way, preferring to deal with his wounds in private. 

"Barton, can you tell me what’s going on?” Phil spoke slowly and calmly debating with himself whether or not to page medical and have someone sent up to check him over. 

“M’fine. Just dizzy.” The archer’s words slurred slightly as he tried to push himself out of Phil’s grip and up to his feet. Phil wisely let go but stayed close as he wavered on his feet. 

“How long were you at the range before I found you? And don’t try to lie to me, I have ways of finding out.” He added the last bit even though it was a bluff, to be honest no one was able to keep track of the archer’s comings and goings, lending credit to the ‘ghost’ theory most of the other recruits had about the elusive Clint Barton. 

“Dunno, maybe three hours?” Clint’s eyes widened when he realized what he had just revealed and he cursed the exhaustion wearing on his body for his momentary lapse of judgement. He knew Phil was just as surprised as he was by his revelation based on the man’s raised eyebrows, he braced himself for the questions he knew Phil had.

“Damnit Barton.” Phil breathed out quietly. Clint wasn’t ready for that response and his head swiveled, his steely blue-grey eyes meeting Phil’s with a breathtaking amount of vulnerability flashing across his face before he took a breath and the mask came back down. Clint took a deep breath telling himself Phil was only concerned because this was going to interfere with his training schedule, he didn’t really care. 

He was so intent on telling himself this that he missed the sadness in Phil’s eyes when he realized what Clint was doing. It broke his heart that someone had beaten this kid down so much that he really thought he was alone in all of this. He could only guess at the horrors he had faced in his nearly three years spent as a gun for hire, or more accurately a bow for hire. Phil knew when he first joined SHIELD, nothing but a fresh-faced nineteen year old, his first dozen or so kills haunted him, even though he knew their deaths were warranted. 

According to the intel, which there hadn’t been much of, one of the world’s top mercenaries known only as Hawkeye, had 312 accredited kills, his signature standing out from the rest as a single jet black arrow to the throat. Phil’s orders had been clear, recruit the archer to SHIELD, or eliminate him. When he came face to face with the assassin on a dusty side road in Jerusalem he expected to see the face of a hardened killer, but was shocked when he met the eyes of a kid who couldn’t have been more than 21 years old. 

……………………………….

_Time was running out, the Prime Minister of Israel was scheduled to speak tomorrow night and Phil was no closer to finding the damned assassin than he was two weeks ago! He pulled the slim file that contained all the information SHIELD had been able to compile on the mysterious archer known as Hawkeye closer to him, flipping it open to the first page, his eyes skimming over the pages he had committed to memory days ago._

‘Age: Unknown. Sex: Male. Description: Male of unknown age, highly proficient in the use of a bow. Most targets eliminated with single arrow to the throat. Also proficient in knives and throwing stars. Kill count: 312.’ 

_The few notes they had compiled basically admitted they had nothing on Hawkeye, but as he had completed more and more high profile hits the Council had grown increasingly agitated. The Council had initially come down with a kill order on the archer, but Phil had convinced Director Fury to give him a chance to bring Hawkeye in as an asset for SHIELD._

_He reminded the Director that Agent Romanoff, better known as the Black Widow, had become irreplaceable since Phil had brought her in just over a year ago. He couldn’t help but remember that during her time as an assassin for the Red Room she had racked up a kill count nearly as impressive as the archer’s._

_So when word came through that a hit had been put out on the Prime Minister of Israel, Phil, along with his agent Natasha Romanoff, had boarded a Quinjet and set off for Jerusalem immediately. Phil knew with this high profile of a hit there were few who would take the job, but if he were a betting man he would have put money on Hawkeye to snatch up the available contract._

_What he hadn’t counted on was for the archer to be so hard to pinpoint. With the various rumored descriptions of him floating around the intelligence circles Phil was starting to wonder if anyone had ever gotten a good look at him._

_Which was why he was so damn surprised when he caught up to the assassin in a dusty alley in the market district of Jerusalem to find himself staring into the stormy blue-grey eyes of a kid. He had been pressing a hand to his side, blood seeping out past his fingers, his pant leg soaked in blood, no doubt the only reason why Phil was able to catch up to him._

_There was a desperate light in his eyes, one that told Phil more than if he would have screamed at him. Phil held his gun out placatingly then holstered it as the kid watched him trying to tamp down the curious light in his eyes under a stone cold mask._

_“Listen, I just want to talk. I have a very lucrative offer for you.” He held his hands out, watching the kid’s eyes, trying to indicate he was no threat. There was a slight whoosh before Phil’s arm erupted in searing pain. He saw the throwing star embedded in the soft stone of the building behind him as his peripheral vision caught a flurry of movement. Spinning quickly Phil realized he was now alone in the alley and he couldn’t help but grin slightly, the kid had some fire in him._

…………………………….

The memory drifted away as quickly as it came as Phil shifted to catch the archer as he almost went down again. 

“When was the last time you slept Barton?” He paused, hoping the kid hadn’t passed out on him. “C’mon Barton, you don’t want me to call down to medical do you? You know they would have a field day poking you and putting you on bed rest.” He was just talking now, trying to get any response out of the archer without letting on how worried he was. 

“M’okay Coulson. M’gonna be late for training.” Phil barely stopped his groan of disbelief. Clint was damned lucky Phil wasn’t hauling his ass straight to medical to get checked out. 

“Nice try Hot Shot, but the only place you’re going is your bunk room. I will let your trainer know that you’re not coming in for training today.” He heard Clint grumbling under his breath as he, with Phil’s help, stood up slowly. 

Phil was right behind Clint the entire way back to his bunk room, noting once they were in his room how Clint eyed his bed with a look of disgust. Phil looked at the bed, then back to Clint, who was starting to sway on his feet again, and just sighed. 

“Where do you usually sleep?” Clint’s wide eyes met his, a questioning look in his eyes. 

“I sleep here obviously.” The words didn’t have their usual fire behind them, and Phil knew them for what they were, a lie. 

“I thought I told you to stop lying to me. Now I haven’t been out in the field in a few years, but I’m not stupid, you have barely anything in this room, plus two of the pillows from the bed are missing.” Coulson faced his extremely stubborn agent with one eyebrow raised, daring him to contradict his observations. Clint’s eyes clouded with something that looked vaguely like shame mixed with anger before he fixed his gaze firmly on the floor. 

“I sleep in the vents.” His reply was so quiet that Phil almost missed it. Phil wasn’t even sure how to respond to that. He knew the kid wasn’t sleeping in his room, but he would have never guessed he was holed up in the vents running throughout the base. 

“Well you’re in no condition right now to be crawling around in the vents, so will you be okay in your bed for the day?” He posed the question gently, knowing Clint had a reason for not using his bed, but doubting he would be told that reason. He could sense the archer’s hesitation as he headed towards his bed and climbed in, a sigh escaping as his abused body relaxed. Clint positioned his body carefully, his eyes towards the door.

Phil thought he caught the glint of a blade under the pillow when everything clicked into place. The archer had to be paranoid about someone sneaking up on him in his sleep, no doubt leftover habits from his years as a mercenary, one couldn’t be too careful in that field, and he had no one to watch his back. 

The vents were his escape, he knew no one would be able to find him up there, so he was able to let his guard down and sleep. He could feel Clint’s eyes on him as he grabbed a chair from the desk area and settled himself in it. 

“You go ahead and get some rest. I’ve got first watch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As previously mentioned this story is part of my Universe in which Natasha was brought to SHIELD before Clint. Each of my fics will have glimpses of other stories hidden inside so be on the lookout for those! 
> 
> Drop me a comment and let me know what you think so far! 
> 
> Thanks for reading! xoxo


	3. I'm No Hero

Coulson’s pager rang out in the silence of the room. He hurriedly turned it off, glancing to the bed to see if it had disturbed the archer, breathing a sigh of relief when Clint didn’t move. He checked the message on his device, nearly groaning when he saw Director Fury needed to see him in his office immediately The last thing he wanted to do was leave Clint, especially since he felt he might be getting through to the archer finally. 

It was probably a mission briefing for one of Natasha’s upcoming assignments. He cast another worried look to the bed, Clint had only been asleep for a few hours now, hopefully he could attend the meeting and make it back here before the kid woke up. With that in mind he stood up carefully, stretching the stiff muscles in his back before making his way to the door and opening it quietly, knowing Clint had superior hearing, not wanting to disturb him. 

Once in the hallway Phil walked briskly out of the living quarters and took a private elevator up to Fury’s office. The lift stopped with a soft chime and he stepped off the second the doors opened, making his way to the door at the end of the short hallway. He knocked once, knowing the Director was inside. The sound of the locks disengaging was his cue to enter. Sitting at the middle of a small table was the imposing figure of Director Nick Fury. 

“Agent Coulson, before we get down to business I heard Barton didn’t show up for training this morning. Have you been in contact with him today?” The Director asked as Phil took his seat at the table. 

“Yes Sir, he trained with Agent Romanoff this morning, before I caught on that he was sick. I sent him back to his bunk room and told him not to attend general training.” Fury eyed him closely, but decided his answer was good enough and leaned back in his chair, tenting his hands over his mouth as if contemplating what to say next. 

“How is Barton’s training coming along?” The question was asked so nonchalantly that Phil was immediately suspicious. He knew Fury received twice weekly updates on the archer’s progress ever since he was brought to SHIELD. 

“He’s doing extremely well. He has shown a surprising efficiency with languages, and was able to last the longest during anti-interrogation sessions. He’s on track to at least tie, or possibly break Romanoff’s record to make it through training.” Phil dropped off waiting to see where Fury was going with this line of questioning. 

“Excellent.” Fury slid a folder over the desk into Coulson’s hands. “Then he should have no problem handling this.” Phil flipped open the file and quickly scanned the contents. Everything seemed like a routine hit, nothing out of the ordinary, but he couldn’t help the feeling of foreboding that settled in his stomach. 

“Luciano Campos has been a thorn in our side for too long. He controls Bogotá and this new drug he has been pushing, ‘Everglaze’, has killed over 150 people in the last three months alone. He needs to be eliminated, and Barton is the perfect operative for the job.” 

“You want me on site to run things?”

“That’s what I had planned, this being his first op and all. Wheels up in less than twelve hours, you know the drill.” Fury nodded indicating the meeting was over and Coulson could leave. 

“And Coulson?” The director called out as his hand was on the door handle. “I don’t want to have to send anyone down to medical to subdue him, so make sure Barton behaves himself.” With that said Nick Fury spun in his chair his mind already shifted to his next task at hand. 

.................. 

Phil glanced at his watch as he strode down the hall towards the living quarters of the base. He planned on checking on Clint to make sure he was still asleep before sneaking down to the dining hall to grab them both some food to eat as they went over his assignment. He was almost to the archer’s door when he heard what sounded like a muffled sob. He looked around him searching for the source when he heard it again, only this time it sounded more distressed. 

He was standing in front of Clint’s door, his hand hovering above the handle debating if he should go in, when a keening whimper came from inside solidified his resolve. Coulson pushed the door open quietly hoping to avoid the archer waking and attacking before looking. His eyes were drawn immediately to the bed where Clint thrashed under the sheets, muffled gasps and whimpers escaping his mouth. 

Phil drew closer, debating what to do, he knew when he woke Natasha from her own nightmares she usually came after him with the blade she kept within her reach at all times. He really didn’t need to deal with a knife wound today, especially with wheels up in a few hours, so he tried calling Clint’s name, attempting to break through the grip his nightmare had on him. 

“Clint!” He pitched his voice low and gentle watching as the archer stirred slightly. “Clint, wake up. It’s okay, its just a bad dream.” Phil nearly jumped out of his skin when Barton jack-knifed upright, breathing heavily and trembling. Clint’s shadowed blue-grey eyes met his and Phil could see all the pain and guilt briefly before he brought his mask back into place. 

“What are you doing in here Coulson?” Phil was sure the words were meant to be scornful, but any heat was taken out of the statement due to the breathlessness Clint was experiencing. Phil briefly wondered if the kid remembered how he collapsed into his bed and slept while Phil kept watch. But the thought was dismissed as he watched Clint absently rub at the scar that he knew stretched across his chest, while trying to get his breathing under control. 

“I heard noises in here and was just checking to make sure you were alright.” He purposely left out that the sounds he heard were sobs, knowing that Clint hated to show any weakness at all. “Did you want to talk about it at all?” Phil expected he would be turned down as the archer retreated back into his shell, but he figured he would ask. 

“There was so much blood.” Clint gasped out. Phil’s expression sharped as he quickly looked his agent over, checking for any wounds on him he may have missed. He caught Clint pulling at his shirt, panic clear in his blue-grey eyes as his breathing started to quicken again. 

“Hey, hey, hey, Clint, you’re okay. You’re safe.” His words didn’t seem to have any effect on the archer who was in the middle of a full blown panic attack, his breaths sawing in and out too quickly. Phil moved closer, extending his hand and gripping Clint’s shoulder, squeezing tights as he commanded, “Barton, breathe. I need you to take a deep breath right now.” 

The authority of his tone seemed to break through Clint’s panic induced haze, after a few seconds of concentration he was able to draw in a slightly deeper breath than the wheezes from earlier. After a few deeper breaths Clint’s hand over his scar slowly dropped into his lap, the agent and handler sitting in silence broken only by the sound of Clint’s harsh breaths. 

“Thank you Coulson.” The archer said quietly once he had control of his breathing. Phil only nodded, trying not to embarrass Clint and not wanting to break the moment. After several more beats Clint broke the silence. “I was stabbed when I was just 16, then left for dead.” Phil’s eyes widened, when he realized what the archer was doing. He remained silent, mentally pleading for the kid to continue.

“There was so much blood, I still don’t know how I lived through it.” In the dim light of the room Phil was able to watch as Clint’s eyes hardened, not a sign of the vulnerability he saw earlier in the blue-grey orbs. A strangled sigh escaped past his lips, a tell for exactly how on edge Clint was. 

"My parents died in a car crash when I was 8. Drunk driver, I wasn’t too sad to see my old man go, that sonuvabitch.” Clint’s jaw clenched slightly but he continued. “Barney and I bounced around from boy’s home to boy’s home, until one day Barney told me we were leaving it all behind. I trusted him of course, being older he had to know what was best right?” The rhetorical question laced with venom hung in the air for a few seconds before Clint soldiered on. 

“When I first saw that Carnival it was just, wow. The colors, the smells, were incredible for an eleven year old kid.” Clint’s eyes got a faraway look as if he was back walking between the tents again. “They found Barney and I hiding out in one of the prop tents, Mari, she went by The Mystic, took us in. At first we just helped with the set-up and tear-down, But after the fourth or so show I found a bow in the prop tent, and I was fascinated.” His eyes lit up at the happy memory. 

“Trickshot found me using it one night and after some persuading he decided to train me, and tell me everything he knew. Before long I was better than he was, and thanks to a few of the acrobats’ training, I had my own act put together. The Amazing Hawkeye, the kid who never missed.” Phil found himself wishing he could see this young carefree Clint, the one he got occasional glimpses of when Barton was in a particularly good mood. 

"Then one night I was up on the high wires, it was where I went to be alone, I could see everything better from a distance. Well I was up there when I heard the Swordsman, who led our show, talking to someone. Being the nosy 16 year old I was I had to move in closer and find out what was so important that they were having a meeting in the middle of the night for.” Clint laughed humorlessly, the brief silence in the room was nearly deafening to Phil. 

“I sat up in the high wires and listened as the Swordsman bragged about how he had been stealing from the show the entire time, then he offered to cut someone in. Imagine my surprise when Barney’s voice answered him back. I had to do something, I couldn’t let my brother steal from the show that had basically saved our lives, so I confronted them. I told them I would tell Trickshot, then they moved on me. Barney had three years on me, and I had always been a little on the scrawny side. It didn’t take long for him to overpower me, I was too small to do anything about it.” Clint’s voice was dry, the self-reproach and hate evident in his voice. 

“Barney held me down as the Swordsman stabbed me, twice.” His hand was twisted in his shirt again, absently fingering the since healed wounds. “The second time he drew the blade across my chest, just trying to inflict more pain. They disappeared as I bled out on the straw floor of the big tent. It was dumb luck Mari found me, turns out she had been looking for me when she saw I wasn’t in bed.” Clint turned and looked to Phil, his eyes full of an emotion he wasn’t sure he could identify. 

“I left not too long after I healed up. Nothing to my name. I had a particular skill set and I found it payed well, the rest is history.” Phil marveled at the kid sitting in front of him, against all odds he was a survivor, and even with the hand he was dealt managed to come out on top. He could only guess at how much the three years of mercenary work ate at Clint’s soul. 

They lapsed into a somewhat comfortable silence, Phil lost in his musings, Clint trying to push all the ghosts back in the box he tried to contain them in. The moment broken when Clint’s stomach started protesting his lack of food, the kid shot Phil a sheepish grin. 

“Don’t suppose we could go get some food?” Phil laughed placing a hand on his agent’s shoulder. 

“Yeah we should be able to do that.” Clint started to stand, his muscles sore from Natasha’s beatdown were now stiff and protesting the movement. After he had the worst of the kinks worked out he grabbed his duffle exchanging his sweaty shirt for a fresh one.

“And Barton, you’ve just received your first assignment. We’ll go over the details after you get some food.” Coulson managed to keep a stoic look on his face at Clint’s wide eyed look of astonishment. 

“But I’m not even out of training yet.” He pointed out, worried there had been a mistake. 

“Director Fury seems to think you’re ready. Welcome to SHIELD Agent Barton.” Phil announced with a wide smile.


	4. And I'm Not Made Of Stone

On the way to the dining hall Clint took advantage of his momentary freedom to peek in on the general training going on in the main gym, a particular red-headed agent catching his attention. In the same ring she had kicked his ass in several hours earlier, she was engaged with two other agents, who were sorely outmatched. 

Now that he didn’t have to worry about her attacking him Clint was able to really observe her and her skills. She moved with a deadly grace, no wasted movement or energy, her lithe body twisting and contorting, seeming to avoid every blow. He couldn’t help but marvel at the absolute destruction wrapped in one beautiful package. And damn was she beautiful. 

It had been her beauty that had been his downfall back in Israel. The siren that had caught his eye from across the ballroom happened to be none other than the deadly Black Widow, spinning her web, beckoning him ever closer, before she pounced. 

He had been close enough to make out the sprinkling of freckles across her nose, close enough that her breath had mingled with his, less than inches from tasting her lush red lips. Clint’s hand went involuntarily to the small raised scar on his right side, courtesy of her blade. Rookie mistake. 

Even from his vantage point some 15 yards away his sharp eyes caught the brilliant flash of her green eyes as she flipped one agent, while kicking out at the other. As the one on the ground jumped back to his feet she was already crouched to the side of the ring, daring the two agents to come to her, expertly snaring them in her web. Clint felt Phil walk up alongside him, his handler joining him in silence as they watched the lethal dance of the Black Widow. 

“She’s good isn’t she?” Phil remarked absently, as entranced in the Widow’s movements as Clint was. Clint hummed in affirmation as she locked her thighs around the agent’s throat, very similar to this morning’s session. A heartbeat later the agent was on the ground, and she had rolled gracefully to her feet, her eyes traveling upwards to meet Clint’s. He barely stopped his eyes from widening in surprise, she obviously knew he had been there, as she winked and turned to step down from the ring. 

“Yeah, she’s something else.” He murmured more to himself than anyone else, he watched as she strode away from the group, her gait similar to that of a big cat; graceful and quiet, the promise of danger surrounding her. He found himself wondering what her lips tasted like, and more importantly if she would kiss back. 

Coulson cleared his throat, effectively drawing the archer’s gaze away from the red-head, Clint met his handler’s eyes sheepishly before starting off towards the dining hall again.

........................ 

“So I’m taking out a drug dealer, but I can’t use my bow?” Clint spoke while waving his fork in the air around him, obviously not happy with the no bow rule Fury had set. 

“Correct, Luciano Campos is your target. And I’m assuming Fury doesn’t want you to use your bow because this hit needs to be untraceable. We can afford for anyone to trace this hit back to SHIELD, so no bow.” Coulson stared over the table at Clint one eyebrow raised waiting for the young assassin to object again. 

Clint stared down at his tray of food quietly for a few moments, picking at the remnants on his plate, he seemed to have made up his mind as Phil could see the resolve flashing in his blue-grey eyes. 

“There’s more than one way to skin a cat right?” Phil looked at him confusedly. “I mean, I’m not only good with my bow. This will be easy.” Clint paused, looking up at the ceiling momentarily losing himself in his thoughts before muttering, 

“I can’t help but think I’ve heard of this Campos guy before. I guess it could be a common name.” Even as he said the words he couldn’t help but notice his stomach churning with uneasiness. He stood up quickly, grabbing his tray and walking over to dump what was left in the trash, Coulson trailing behind him, doing the same. 

“I need you to report down to Medical to be checked out and cleared for this assignment.” Phil nearly laughed at the look of dismay on Clint’s face as he knows the archer’s least favorite place in the entire base was the Medical Bay. But protocol was protocol, and Clint needed the good doctor’s say so in order to leave base for this assignment. 

Clint seemed to sense the determination radiating from Phil, and he knew there was going to be no slipping away from this one. He sighed heavily and turned, headed down the corridor towards the Medical Bay aka Hell. Once he was nearly out of sight Phil allowed himself to smile, knowing that the agent was slowly warming up to him. 

.............................. 

One hour and 4 shots later Clint practically fled from Dr. Graley and the medical bay, wincing at the pain in his shoulder where the shots were administered. In his hurry to get away from the needles and all over awfulness of the medical bay he ran straight into the chest of none other than Director Nick Fury. 

“Agent Barton. I haven’t heard a peep out of Dr. Graley, I assume everything in your evaluation went well?” Clint only nodded, his mask slipping back into place, masking any real thoughts he had on the matter. He could feel Fury’s gaze as it swept over him, and he resisted the urge to fidget. 

The only other interaction he had with the Director of SHIELD had been an icy exchange once the quinjet had touched down from Israel. The imposing figure of Nick Fury had been waiting, leather duster, eyepatch and trademark scowl, to escort Clint to a holding cell until he had a chance to debrief Coulson and Romanoff. He knew the man had taken a special interest in his development, and Clint hoped that this assignment was a tip of the hat to the skills he had displayed. 

“Agent Coulson is waiting for you in Briefing room 3. I wouldn’t keep him waiting.” Clint stuffed the urge to salute the man as he turned and started towards the stairs. “And Barton?” Fury called after his retreating figure. “I trust you’ll get this done quickly and discreetly.” With that Fury turned and continued his way towards Medical, and Clint continued towards the stairs to meet with Coulson. 

........................ 

“Campos has pushed millions of dollars worth of this drug into the Colombian drug trade. Known on the streets as ‘Everglaze’ or ‘Neuroblast’ this drug is derived from the plant Pseudotsya Majus, native to Colombia. Originally this plant had been used in various sedatives across the globe, but drug producers found a way to blend it with several other substances, ultimately leading to the production of drug cocktail that is Everglaze.” Phil stopped his brief to look at Clint, who seemed to be in danger of nodding off, his blue-grey eyes slightly glazed over as he fought to keep them open. 

“Barton. Are you even listening?” He was answered by a low grunt as Clint rubbed his eyes. Phil couldn’t help but feel bad for the kid, he had probably only slept for four or so hours before he had been woken by his nightmare earlier. And before that, who knows how long it had been since the kid had gotten a decent nights sleep. He decided to have mercy on his agent, knowing there would be time to pump him with more information once they got to the safe house. 

“Let’s go get packed up, you still have to head down to tech and pick out your gear for this assignment.” Clint looked up at him at the mention of weapons, and Phil rolled his eyes. “I should have known you would be interested in your weapons.” 

“I’m not using SHIELD gear.” Clint’s quiet refusal stopped Phil short. There was a slight undercurrent of something in his tone he wasn’t sure he could identify. 

“What are you going to use then?” Phil wasn’t sure where he was going with this, any weapons the kid had were confiscated when he arrived on base. The only response he received was Clint standing and walking out of the briefing room, the door practically slamming behind him. 

.................. 

Kneeling next to his bed, covers still rumpled from where he had twisted them during his nightmare, Clint pulled a long slender case out and set it on top of the mattress just as he sensed his door opening. Ignoring Phil he placed his thumb on the locking mechanism, it gave a quiet beep as the lock clicked open. Nestled inside the case was a matte black Barrett .50 Caliber sniper rifle, this wicked piece of weaponry had served him nearly as well as his bow had. He picked it up, relishing the familiar weight in his hands. 

The SHIELD database had a file full of hits that had not been linked to anyone, or were generally unclaimed, Clint had a feeling that if he looked he would recognize most of the hits. He had used his rifle in several situations where his bow wasn’t practical, with a range of nearly 2,600 yards by the time the target fell dead Clint was already gone. 

He could feel Phil’s eyes on him, silently demanding an explanation as to why he had a sniper rifle in his room when SHIELD protocol clearly states that agents were not allowed weapons in their personal spaces. 

_Coulson would probably shit a brick if he found out how many weapons I have stashed around this base._ Clint thought wryly. He took a deep breath and turned to his handler, rifle still in hand. The single raised eyebrow on Phil’s face told Clint he was waiting for an answer. 

“I uh… had a day off. So I left and went to my storage locker to grab this beauty.” He rubbed his neck, purposely leaving out the other two duffle bags of weapons he had grabbed as well. From the look on Coulson’s face Clint knew that the older man probably didn’t believe him. Looks like he’s finally learning, I don’t do anything half assed. 

“Well, I’m gonna take a guess and say that rifle is responsible for most of our miscellaneous kills then.” Phil’s voice was even, just a hint of sarcasm in his tone, as he met his younger agent’s blue-grey eyes. The slight darkening in his eyes was all the confirmation Phil needed. 

“Go ahead and get packed up kid, we’ll still have to hit tech on our way to the quinjet, gotta grab our comms. I’ll expect you down there in thirty.” With that Coulson turned and left as silently as he had come, the soft click of the door betraying he had ever been there. 

Clint snagged the oiled rag out of the case as he lowered himself to sit on the bed, still cradling the rifle in his hands. After a moment he began to methodically disassemble the weapon, oiling and checking all of its parts were in working order, even though he knew it was in mint condition. He made sure all of his weapons were cleaned weekly, it never hurt to be prepared for anything. 

Once he had the gun reassembled and packed neatly back in its case Clint pulled his go bag from his closet, checking the contents. Three pairs of shirts, two pairs of shorts, a couple pairs of underwear and socks, as well as a small waterproof bag containing his passport, fake ID’s, and enough cash to get him out of the country. At the very bottom of the bag wrapped in one of the tee shirts was a black custom Heckler  & Koch P30 handgun.

He repacked everything into the bag neatly before rummaging through the large duffle at the end of his bed where he kept all his other clothes. He pulled out several more changes of clothes as well as his trademark blacked out fatigues, the ones he always wore on hits, and shoved them into his bag. 

Clint set everything on his bed before slipping into the bathroom to shower and shave quickly. He stepped out from the bathroom, grabbed his duffle and slung it over his shoulder, then picked up the Barrett’s case and walked to the door of his room. He paused and looked back as he flicked off the overhead lights, his room empty minus the duffle at the end of the bed, swallowing tightly as a deep feeling of unease crept through his body. 

Clint shook his head quickly, trying to rid himself of the dark thoughts threatening to swoop in as he closed the door and headed down the hallway to meet Coulson. He glanced down at his watch quickly, _I’m only two minutes late, take that Coulson._ He thought smugly, knowing his handler hated when he wasn’t punctual. 

As expected Coulson’s disapproving face met him outside the door to the tech department. Clint met him in front of the door, trying to keep the shit eating grin off his face, which was getting harder and harder to do around Coulson he noticed. Phil didn’t say anything but jerked his head in the direction of the door, signaling for Clint to head inside. 

The archer just raised a single eyebrow but opened the door and stepped inside. Phil shook his head wryly with the kid’s back to him, he was secretly pleased with Clint’s tardiness as it was obvious he had showered and some of the darkness was gone from his eyes. He checked his watch, just under an hour until wheels up. They better hurry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little glimpse of Clint and Nat's complicated history there! I love writing these two, even with little interactions like this! 
> 
> Thanks for reading xoxo


	5. Right or Wrong

Less than two hours until landing Phil had noticed that his agent had dropped off to sleep, his normally tense face relaxed and tension free as he slept. The file Clint had been reading close to slipping off his lap. Coulson had watched Barton fight sleep for over an hour before his body surrendered to the urge to rest. He stood and walked over to the archer, grabbing the briefing file out of his lap before the papers fell everywhere, Phil was glad the kid was finally getting some sleep because he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that something wasn’t right about this mission. 

Glancing back at the young sandy haired agent he ran through the mission parameters in his head again, going over every detail trying to figure out what was bothering him so much. From every angle this hit seemed very cut and dry, in and out, no problem, but Phil had been an Agent long enough to know to trust his instincts, and right now they were telling him there was something off. 

Luciano Campos was a very powerful man in Bogota, he controlled the government in the city, securing funds as well as the protection for his lucrative illegal drug trading ring. Campos had been on SHIELD’s radar for many years now, but things had been quiet since the attempt on his life almost three years ago, an attempt that had left his oldest, and only son, dead. No one had stepped up to claim the attempted assassination, the only information coming from the rumors swirling in intelligence circles. Campos was a dangerous man and it seemed nearly everyone was gunning for him. 

His newest and most dangerous drug, Everglaze, was a drug cocktail that when injected straight into the blood stream, similar to heroin, caused intense hallucinations as well as feelings of euphoria. The problems came when people overdosed, causing heart attacks, nerve damage, paralysis, and even death. It was an extremely dangerous drug because it was a mix of several different compounds that when mixed incorrectly were deadly. 

Phil’s eyes continued to scan the briefing packet assembled on Campos detailing his movements as well as a supposed layout of his large mansion close to the edge of the city limits of Bogota. The downside was there were not many tall buildings around his home, more than likely to prevent people like Clint from getting a clear shot at him. 

The sounds of movement broke Phil from his thoughts as he looked over to the archer who was beginning to move restlessly in his sleep, no doubt another nightmare playing in his head. He was just about to get up to reassure the kid when Clint bolted upright, chest heaving, eyes wide, and a knife held out in front of him. At the sight of Phil the young agent visibly relaxed and drew a few deep breaths before meeting his eyes. 

“How long until we touch down?” Clint asked, once he had his breathing under control, his voice still rough from sleep. 

“Um, about that, I was just about to wake you up to get you prepped. We aren’t actually landing.” Phil grabbed one of the packs sitting beside him and extended it towards Clint. 

“Seriously? We’re parachuting down? Won’t that be rather obvious Coulson?” His voice held a small amount of sarcasm but the single arched eyebrow told Phil the kid was more amused than he was letting on. 

“What? Scared of heights Barton?” He teased gently, curbing the urge to laugh when Clint huffed and grabbed the pack out of his hands. 

“Of course not. Just thought we were aiming for subtle here.” Coulson glanced out the window, the soft glowing lights of Bogota in the distance. It was perfect timing, clouds covered the moon enough that their landing should be concealed by the inky blackness of the night. 

“It’s a restricted fly area, we’re lucky they’re getting us in as close as they are, remember, this cannot be traced back to a United States op or things will get very messy.” Phil finished strapping into his harness as he watched the archer pack his gear into the small bag, the rifle case laying within easy reach. 

_T-minus ten until we’re in range Agent Coulson._ The voice of the pilot echoed over his comm device. He hurriedly pushed all of his gear and weapons into the small pack before double checking the straps on his gun holster on his side. With everything secured Phil walked over to the door of the Quinjet, waiting on the green light from the pilot. He could sense the archer ghost up behind him, tense energy radiating out from the young agent. 

Phil turned, intending to reassure the kid that everything was going to be fine when the pilot’s voice sounded again over his comm, telling him they had less than five minutes to jump in order to reach their destination on the ground. A single thumbs up was given as he punched the button, unlocking the door. Wind whipped around them as they both stood looking down. Clint pushed towards the edge before throwing a honest to goodness grin at Phil.

“Race ya to the ground old man.” With that Clint dramatically stepped out of the quinjet, saluting Phil as he began to plummet. Phil couldn’t help the smile that crept across his face at Clint’s playfulness. He shook his head then jumped out of the plane, glad Clint wasn’t there to witness the flailing of his limbs for a few seconds until he got his bearings. 

_You look like a fish flopping around up there._ Clint’s voice crackled through the comm, and he sighed, the Hawkeye was aptly named, as he didn’t miss anything. 

..................... 

The ground raced up to meet him as Clint prepped his body for impact with the earth. He landed in a near perfect crouch, his years of acrobatic training serving him well. He took a quick look around him, getting his bearings. Phil had chosen a small clearing in a patch of trees roughly three miles outside of the city limits, just far enough out that their landing wouldn’t have been seen or heard by anyone else. 

The sound of air rushing signaled the arrival of Coulson, his landing however wasn’t quite as graceful, as he tumbled to the ground, barely managing to avoid colliding with Clint. As he maneuvered himself out of the tangle of the parachute he caught the young agent’s gaze, shocked when he saw the smile on his face. 

“Looks like you could use a little work on your landing there huh Coulson?” Clint barely kept himself from laughing, although he wasn’t able to keep the shit eating grin off his face at the rude gesture the older man threw his way. 

The sound of a twig snapping nearby wiped the grin off Clint’s face as he quickly drew a wicked looking black knife from a holster on his chest. Coulson hadn’t heard the noise but sensed the shift in Clint from joking around to predatory, it was very unnerving how quickly the shift had occurred, but Phil focused on listening trying to pick up what had the archer on edge. 

Clint had always had exceptional senses, most people were aware of his incredible eyesight, but didn’t realize that his sense of hearing was as good if not better than his eyesight. It was his ability to hear even the slightest shift of dirt under a shoe, or the softest intake of breath that had saved his life more times than he could count. 

He moved silently in a circle, eyes straining into the darkness, trying to determine if there was a threat or not. After several tense seconds he allowed his guard to relax slightly, inclining his head to Phil that it was okay to move again. He found Coulson staring directly at him as he tucked the knife back into its holster. 

“You can be one scary motherfucker you know that?” The older agent spoke in a hushed tone. Clint stepped closer and offered a hand to help Coulson up, a questioning look in his eyes. His handler grabbed his hand and Clint pulled him to his feet. Another sharp sound of a twig cracking drew both their attention, Coulson going for the Glock in his holster, Clint’s hand reaching to the throwing stars he had tucked into his tactical vest. 

Clint’s breathing slowed as he focused on trying to find the threat. He turned slowly to his right nudging Phil towards their bags with all of their gear inside. Phil took the hint and crept over to the gear, holding one bag out for Clint and strapping the other one onto his back. Clint’s rifle was stowed on his back, stock collapsed for easier carrying. 

He signaled to Phil, making sure he caught his handler’s nod of affirmation before he exploded into motion. He whipped a throwing star into the darkness of the tree-line, already running, urging Phil along with him, when he heard a gurgled yell and the soft thud of a body hitting the ground. 

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the breath of the two agents as they ran before all hell broke loose. The clatter of gunfire broke the stillness as bullets peppered the ground around Clint’s feet. He risked a glance behind him and was able to make out the sight of three men as they stepped out of the pitch black tree line. A bullet whizzed past, too close for his comfort making him turn back around, focused on picking his way through the trees quickly. 

_We need to split up and meet back up at the safe house. You know where that is right?_ Coulson’s voice came over his comm device startling Clint and nearly causing the archer to stumble. He nodded his affirmation before he realized Phil wasn’t going to be able to see that. 

“Copy that boss. Hawkeye out.” He saluted Coulson before he peeled off sharply to his right, planning on doubling back behind the men and taking them out. The gunfire stopped abruptly, an eerie silence compared to the barrage of noise just seconds before. Clint dropped to the ground, listening intently for the sound of the other men as he crept forward, the sound of their whispered conversation leading him closer and closer. 

His movements were silent as he ghosted through the trees closing in on his prey. The men seemed to be arguing based on the snippets of angry Spanish he had been able to catch, from the sounds of it he had managed to drop one man with his throwing star and the men were spooked. Clint’s lips quirked upwards in a ruthless grin, this was going to be easy. 

Once he was in position behind the three men, still debating whether or not to pursue, Clint pounced, all fluid grace and deadly movements. His throwing star struck the back of the neck of his first target, severing the spinal cord as the body dropped heavily to the ground. Before the other men had a chance to react Clint had closed in on them slashing his knife across the first man’s throat, pulling the body in front of him as a shield. 

As expected the last man fired his gun at him, the bullets thudding into the dead body of the man, as his clip emptied Clint moved, throwing the body off of him and sending a kick flying at the gun, knocking it out of the man’s hands. The man scrambled to pull a knife out of his boot, barely able to get it up and block Clint’s first swing at his neck. 

The young agent twirled the long black blade twice in his fingers, smirking at the man, before feinting right then slamming the hilt of the knife into the man’s temple. He staggered once before going down on one knee and tried to kick out a leg as a last ditch effort to slow the deadly agent. 

Clint dodged the attempt easily but didn’t see the man’s blade as he drove it towards his body. The archer’s right forearm erupted in pain as the blade sliced through his skin. He hissed at the pain but didn’t stop as he catapulted himself into the air, his legs wrapping around the man’s neck as he drug him to the ground, a move eerily similar to that of the Black Widow’s. Once he had the man pinned he quickly twisted his neck, the sharp crack of bones echoing through the small clearing. 

The archer stood up brushing dirt out of the wound on his forearm, as his fingers probed it he was relieved to realize it wasn’t a deep wound and wouldn’t even need stitches. He wiped his blade on the shirt of the man and tucked it back in its holster and retrieved the throwing star out of the other man’s neck. He better contact Coulson and let him know what happened, then he needed to get his ass back to the safe house. 

“Boss, this is Hawkeye. Hostiles eliminated. Over.” The second the last word left his mouth Clint felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, all his senses screaming at him that he was not alone anymore. He whirled around trying to get his hands up as a figure flew at him. 

_Barton. You were to return to the safe house, not engage the targets. Are you headed back now?_ Phil’s voice come over the comm line, sounding concerned. Clint didn’t have the chance to answer as the sharp crack of the butt of a gun connecting with his skull rang out. He gave a muffled groan as the darkness rushed in and his body hit the ground. 

_Barton? What was that? ………..Barton? Goddamn it answer me! Clint?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a cliffhanger for you all!! I should have the next few chapters posted in the next couple days. The more reviews and kudos there are the faster I will post! :)
> 
> Thanks for reading! xoxo
> 
> Remember, review and the next chapter goes up faster! go go go!


	6. I Can Hardly Tell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Sorry it's taken me so long to update! Between school and my job life gets pretty crazy!!   
> Thanks for everyone's patience, and I hope you enjoy these next couple chapters!!!

_Boss this is Hawkeye. Hostiles eliminated. Over._ The archer’s cocky tone came through Phil’s comm device just as the older man cleared the city limits of Bogota. Their safe house was only a mile or so inside the city, in the busy market district, making it easy to get lost in the crowds, even at the late hour. 

“Barton. You were to return to the safe house, not engage the targets. Are you headed back now?” He wasn’t able to disguise the concern for his agent in his voice, the kid may have ended this mission before it really even began, as everything in this assignment had hinged on the fact that Barton’s presence was supposed to be undetected in order to keep the hit clean. There was a sharp crack and Phil could make out Clint’s low groan. Something wasn’t right, and Phil’s sense of foreboding returned full force. 

“Barton? What was that?.............Barton? Goddamn it answer me! Clint?” Phil quickened his pace trying to avoid suspicion in the crowd, if someone had ambushed Barton there was a chance they were completely compromised and they could have eyes anywhere to track him down. 

He needed to get to the safe house and activate the missing agent’s tracker, Phil contemplated making a call to Fury, but decided against it until he had more info on what was happening. He readjusted his pack and kept moving quickly, his head down to avoid unnecessary attention, the safe house was only a mile away. 

The SHIELD agent pulled up his hood and with the help of years of training and field work easily melted into the crowd, the pit in his stomach spurring him on. He needed to get to the safe house now in order to help his young agent, Phil knew the kid was tough, but this whole scenario felt like a set up, one that Clint was not meant to survive. 

.......................................................... 

A sharp stinging slap broke through the darkness in Clint’s mind, clearing the shadows and forcing his eyes open quickly. He immediately regretted the action as the bright lights pierced through his aching skull, a sure sign of a concussion. The coppery tang of blood on his tongue from the slap brought everything rushing back. The three men he had killed and the fourth he hadn’t sensed until it was too late. 

He remembered the sound of Coulson’s worried voice as he collapsed and nearly breathed a sigh of relief, Coulson would be able to find him thanks to the tracker that had been injected into his arm courtesy of Dr. Graley the day before. Clint’s thoughts were interrupted when someone grabbed his chin and wrenched his head up, through his squinted glare Clint could make out a face, and his blood ran cold at the sight. 

A long thin scar ran down the length of the left side of his face and cruel dark brown eyes stared down at him, a dark gleam of malice within. Suddenly it all came rushing back, he had been barely 18 years old and still getting the hang of contract killing, it had been a relatively easy assignment as the drug lord was rather carefree, believing himself safe within his own town. 

But Clint had been able to get in close and was lined up for the hit, he had ignored the warning bells going off in his head all day and nocked the arrow anyway. Sighting down the shaft at the arrogant drug lord in his office, he was already planning on how he was going to spend his contract money after this hit. The sound of footsteps behind him spooked the archer right as he let the arrow fly and time seemed to stand still as the unthinkable happened. 

For the first time in his life Clint had missed his target. The arrow sliced through Campos’ cheek and buried itself in the chest of his 16 year old son. Clint had whirled around, barely avoiding the fist hurtling towards his face. With the easy grace borne from years of acrobatic training he was able to tuck and roll into a neat crouch behind the large and bulky form of the man. Before he was able to turn Clint struck, a long black knife easily cutting through the man’s brainstem, killing him instantly. 

The young assassin was already scurrying down the fire escape as the body hit the rooftop, panic blooming, he had never missed a target before and he wasn’t sure the man holding the contract was going to be very forgiving for the botched hit. He was surprised when the contract holder praised him for killing the son instead of Campos, the man insisted that losing his only son was a better punishment than killing him, and paid Clint nearly double for his quick thinking, praising the ruthless Hawkeye for another perfect hit. 

Clint had taken the money and left Colombia as quickly as he could, his dwindling sense of conscious still uneasy with taking money for killing a young man only a little over a year younger than himself. The contract assassin known as Hawkeye had gone to ground for a short time after that before remerging more dangerous and ruthless than ever. 

This time a hard punch to Clint’s jaw brought his wandering mind back to the present, he spat the mouthful of blood at the feet of his captor, allowing a blank mask to fall over his face, schooling his features into a sneer of disgust. 

“So you do recognize me maggot?” Campos’ deep grating voice sent chills down the archer’s back but he only arched an eyebrow in response, managing to keep an air of nonchalance about him even though he was handcuffed and tied to a sturdy metal chair. Campos stood in front of him blocking the door and only way out of the cell, while twirling Clint’s black knife in his hands. 

“Well, since I know who you are and I’m sure you know who I am I guess we can skip the pleasantries and get right down to business.” Campos tucked the knife into Clint’s holster he had wrapped around his chest and pulled a single long black arrow from behind his back and held it up. The man’s fingers traced over the fletching and Clint’s stomach clenched, he recognized that arrow, they were one of a kind, purchased from a weapons dealer in Turkey, that was one of his arrows. 

“The bow and arrow is such an outdated weapon, and yet you have become one of the most dangerous and deadly assassins in the world with this simple piece of weaponry.” He brandished the tip of the arrow towards Clint the sick gleam in his eyes growing by the second as he stepped closer. 

“What I don’t understand is why one of the most successful assassins would join up with the cowardly Americans. SHIELD, an organization with more shadows and hidden secrets than you might think.” He reached out and gripped Clint’s right forearm tight, blood welling up from the cut he had received earlier. Campos held the arrow tighter and brought it down towards the archer’s exposed forearm. 

“Now, I can’t have you calling for more backup, that would just ruin our little get together. Because you see, the only way you are leaving this house is by body bag, just like my son did three years ago.” With the last whispered words Campos dug the arrow’s tip into the soft flesh of Clint’s forearm. 

The young agent clenched his teeth tightly, not wanting to give the man the satisfaction of a response. Campos used the wickedly sharp point of the arrow to slice deeper into the muscle of Clint’s arm, making a delighted noise as he yanked out the tiny transmitter and dropped it on the floor, crushing it beneath his boot. 

“There, now we will have no interruptions and SHIELD will presume you are dead, and dead or compromised agents don’t get extraction teams. Looks like you’re alone, again.” Alarm bells were going off in the archer’s head, how did Campos know so much about SHIELD protocol, and how did he know about the transmitter in his arm? There had to be a mole inside SHIELD. Before he could really follow that train of thought he was interrupted by Campos’ fist driving into his ribs. 

“As I was saying earlier, it’s just going to be you and I, and I have a feeling we’re going to be great friends.” Campos turned and headed towards the door of the cell, he opened the door and had a whispered conversation in Spanish with the man stationed outside. He stepped aside and two large men moved into the room headed straight towards Clint. 

The first man held a length of rope in his hands as he stepped behind the chair and stood silently, the other man knelt down and began to untie Clint’s legs from the chair. The second his both of his legs were free Clint moved and wrapped them around the neck of the man kneeling in front of him, twisting deftly, the snap of his neck audible in the small room. 

The stunned and slightly frightened look on Campos’ face made the pain from the man behind him decking him in the back of his already concussed head worth it. Clint didn’t take his eyes from the Campos, the challenge clear in his gaze as the hired muscle yanked his cuffed hands up above his head, securing them to a length of chain hanging from the ceiling. Campos stepped closer to Clint again, but stayed just out of the reach of his limbs. 

“I must be going, I have a very important negotiation to attend to, but don’t worry I will be back and I will break you.” With that he turned and marched out of the room, the other man pausing to drag the dead man out of the room as well. The door slammed shut and everything was silent. 

................................................................ 

Phil had made it to the safe house without any further issues, he circled carefully around the outside of the house, checking for any signs of tampering or someone lying in wait. Seeing nothing he moved to the back door and let himself in via the hand scanner concealed in the doorknob. 

The door swung in slowly, Phil had the Glock out of its holster and raised, assessing the room for any possible threats. After a thorough search of all the rooms in the small house he finally lowered his weapon and let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. He reactivated the security features using his phone not allowing himself to think too much about his missing agent. 

Coulson made his way into the kitchen and keyed a number in on a small security pad under the kitchen table, with a quiet click one of the cabinets opened, revealing several computers and other devices. Grabbing one and making his way to the table Coulson sat down and booted the laptop up, entering his clearance code when necessary. 

The first thing he did was pull up the tracking program and enter all of Barton’s information into the database. The program took several minutes attempting to locate the agent’s tracking device before flashing an error message, the tracking device was no longer emitting a trackable frequency. Phil dropped his head in his hands, that error message could mean only two things, the device was malfunctioning or Clint was dead. 

................................................................. 

Blood trickled sluggishly down Clint’s right arm as he began to lose feeling in his fingers. The archer had no way to track how much time had passed since Campos had left his cell, or more importantly how long it had been since he had last contacted Phil. He needed to find a way to let Phil know that SHIELD had been compromised and had a mole inside feeding Campos information. 

Which led to the even more terrifying thought that if someone was leaking info to a drug lord such as Campos, how many other, even more dangerous people were aware of SHIELD’s inner workings. Clint needed to get out of this cell and warn Coulson that this entire assignment was a set up.

He knew he deserved to die for everything he had done in his short life, but Phil needed to be saved, the man was the most caring person Clint had ever met in his life. His thoughts were interrupted by the door creaking open to reveal the face of Campos, who was grinning evilly at him. 

“Well then Hawkeye, I have a little surprise for you.” He held up a syringe with a long needle attached. “I have an experiment in mind. Are you ready?” Campos moved in closer and disappeared behind Clint. “Let’s see if you can survive this.” There was a small pinch then Clint felt the needle slide into his spinal column, whatever Campos was injecting him with was cold. 

Campos returned to stand in front of the archer, a maniacal grin on his face. Clint was about to tell him where else he could shove that needle when pain like white hot fire shot up his spine, his mouth dropped open as his body helplessly convulsed, spurred on by whatever he had been drugged with. 

The pain spread quickly throughout his entire body as he was racked constantly by severe convulsions, his muscles locked up tightly. Still Clint managed to suffer in silence, not allowing himself to give Campos the satisfaction of knowing how much pain he was in. It was pure agony, grey dots began to swim in his vision, and the young agent gratefully allowed the darkness to swallow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****Just a side note, the drug I have used in this fic 'Everglaze" is something I have completely made up, and to my knowledge does not exist. I have however modeled it after the effects of several different drugs to make it seem more realistic!!****
> 
> Leave me a review and tell me what you think!


	7. I'm On the Wrong Side of Heaven

A feather light touch brought Clint back to awareness as his mind tried to clear the thick shadows swirling around him. He was able to get his eyes opened slightly, focusing on the colored clock on the wall as the hands spun round and round, faster and faster. The room was painted a pleasant green color. A distant humming floated through the air, light and melodic, in perfect tune and he found his head turning slowly towards the noise. 

A woman with dark brown hair sat in a rocking chair next to his bed, with closed eyes as she hummed along to the song in her head a colorful storybook open on her lap. There was something hauntingly familiar about the melody she was humming, he must have stirred as the woman turned to him and opened her stormy blue-grey eyes. 

“What is it Clint?” Her hand brushed over his forehead smoothing his tousled hair back into place. Her voice was so soft he had to strain to hear it, a distorted echoey quality to the words. He struggled to find his voice, his mouth not wanting to form words. 

“Mom?” The one syllable word came out slurred as he tried to reach a hand up towards her, but his limbs weren’t responding. He looked up at his mother, her dark hair framing her face as her familiar blue-grey eyes swam with tears. He was confused, why was she crying? Her mouth was moving but he couldn’t hear her. 

He closed his eyes as two bright lights stole into his vision in the distance he could hear the sound of a car horn and when he opened them again his mother was still beside him but something wasn’t right. Her normally bright blue-grey eyes were glazed over and unfocused. Deep crimson liquid trickled from a gash on her head and it dripped onto his body. Thick and sticky with a metallic scent it dripped down, over and over, rhythmic, soon he was covered in it. 

Panic began to settle in. _Drip._ He still couldn’t move. _Drip._ He needed help. _Drip._ Mom? Momma? _Drip._ The humming was back. _Drip._ A scream bubbled up in his throat. _Drip._ Did she just blink? _Drip._ His heart was racing. _Drip._ Shadows closing in. _Drip. Drip. Drip._

The scene wavered, brick walls in place of the crumpled car seats, before flashing back. There was red, so much red. His mind was racing, trying to tell him something, anything. Sobs, echoed through his head. This isn’t right. Brick walls flashed again. 

Brick walls. He put all of his effort into focusing on the brick walls. The red faded away, replaced by grey brick walls. The shadows receded and his mind cleared momentarily. Campos. He was drugged. None of it was real. He was hallucinating. He grabbed onto that thought like a lifeline, it wasn’t real. He was tied up somewhere in Luciano Campos’ home. He needed to get to Phil. He spotted a figure out of the corner of his eye. 

“You sure this isn’t real kid?” His head whipped towards the voice meeting the penetrating gaze of a man with dark brown eyes. “Because this is going to hurt.” Fiery pain raced across his chest as a long black knife cut him from collarbone to hip. He cried out as his muscles spasmed and the shadows came rushing back up to meet him. 

................................................................ 

Campos grinned evilly as the archer’s body went limp, blood pouring out of the rather deep cut down the right side of his body. The assassin had been continuously administered high doses of Everglaze directly into the spinal column for the quickest transmission to the brain for over three days. The effects nearly instantaneous, excruciating pain followed by seizures, then finally the hallucinations. It was amazing how resilient his body had been, as most people had their hearts stop after only a day of high dosage. 

The hallucinations were Campos’ favorite part, the archer would cry out different names as he sliced into his body, he would whimper or moan, but he still would not beg for Campos to stop. He crossed over to the door, opened it and handed the blade to the guard outside the door, he had a meeting to attend upstairs. He turned one last time and eyed the crumpled and bloody body laying on the floor again, the archer was beginning to grow weaker, it would only be a matter of time until he was begging for the end. And Campos was only too happy to give it to him. 

............................................................ 

Phil glanced at the clock on the wall again. Nearly five days had passed since Clint had been taken by what he could only assume was Campos. With every hour that passed the chances of Clint escaping alive were becoming smaller and smaller. That is IF Clint is even alive still. He pushed back the pessimistic thought, knowing that Clint was one of the best agents he had ever seen, even if he was only 21 years old. 

He walked back over to the computer set up at the kitchen table and refreshed the tracking program, praying that just maybe it would pick up a signal. When the now familiar error message flashed Phil had to take several deep breaths to keep himself from punching through the screen of the useless laptop. 

Several ‘jogging’ trips around Campos’ mansion had revealed no abnormal activity, in fact there was not much activity at all, not even a perimeter guard. But Coulson was sure that a man with Campos’ resources and wealth would not have skimped on a total home protection plan, especially after the death of his son in their own living room. 

There had been very little information released on the death of the only son, only quiet whispers that mentioned an arrow was what had killed the son. Phil straightened in his chair immediately, realization dawning on him. How had he been so stupid? There was only one assassin who used a bow and arrow to take down targets, he just hadn’t remembered that little bit of the rumor until now. 

_Son of a bitch._ This had all been a set up to get to Clint. He knew he should have trusted his gut more, someone had to have know where they were going to land and had a team down around the site they touched down. Phil had not been able to spot anyone observing him or even mildly interested in him for that matter, which further cemented the notion that this had been all about getting to Clint. 

If this was about making Clint pay for killing Campos’ son Phil could only hope that Clint was still alive, even the thought of his young agent being tortured for the past four days was better than the thought that he was dead. Coulson wasn’t even sure how the stubborn pain in the ass archer had wormed his way into Phil’s heart, but somehow he had. And Phil was going to get Clint, if it was the last thing he did. 

............................................................ 

Clint’s eyes cracked open and he groaned at the small amount of light that filtered in, too bright for his sensitive retinas. He took a deep breath, attempting to inventory the aches and pains in his body, assessing the damage done from his latest ‘round in the ring’ with Campos. When he suddenly stopped, his head was relatively clear for the first time in days. There were no shadows, no faces from his past hiding in the corners. 

He barely stopped himself from sobbing in relief, his drug addled brain had dissolved much of his regular strict self control. He felt like he had been shattered and sloppily glued back together, the things he had seen still waiting to haunt him as soon as he closed his eyes. Clint shook his head, regretting it the second the room spun and flickered in and out of focus. 

_Get it together Barton._ He told himself sternly, he needed to figure out how bad of shape he was in, and gathering from the large puddle of dried blood he was laying in he assumed he was pretty worse for wear. He brought his hands up trying to ignore the fact that they were a dull red, covered in blood. With shaky hands he probed at the cut that went from his right collarbone down to his right hip, out of all the cuts this one seemed the deepest, some sections probably needing stitches. 

As he poked a finger at the deepest part of the cut his vision wavered and he blinked rapidly trying to bring everything back into perspective. When he looked back down he nearly screamed when he saw another hand covering his own. _It’s not real. It is NOT real Barton._ He repeated the mantra in his head as his eyes traveled up the arm of the mystery hand and met the kind blue-grey eyes of his mother. 

He knew her eyes were mirrors of his own, as people had always remarked on how unique their eyes were. After the crash he couldn’t look himself in they eyes because every time he did all he could see were the blank vacant eyes of his mother as she lay dead in her seat. He had never told anyone that he had been conscious throughout the entire crash, he, at eight years old, had heard the crunch of his father’s skull and his mother’s quiet sobs before she drew her last breath. 

_I love you baby. Whatever happens, you can get through it, because you are strong Clint. My beautiful baby boy. I love you._ She had known he was conscious, using the last breath in her lungs she had to reassure him, to love him. 

He closed his eyes against the sudden flood of tears. He couldn’t do this right now, he had to focus on getting out of here, getting to Phil. When he opened his eyes his mother was gone, but he could smell the fresh cotton scent that was uniquely hers, and it comforted him. The sound of footsteps outside his door had him snapping to attention, praying that he wasn’t just hallucinating the sound. 

Now was the time to act, before Campos has the chance to pump him full of more drugs. He rearranged himself on the floor, looking for all intent and purposes that he was still unconscious. Campos’ heavy footsteps sounded as he crossed the small cell floor and kicked at Clint, knocking the breath out of his lungs. 

Clint scrambled into protective sitting position praying that Campos wouldn’t pay too close attention to the fact that Clint wasn’t tripping out of his mind. His body was so weak, he had no idea how long he had been locked in this cell, a screaming, drooling mess thanks to the drugs pumping through his system. He had to wait to make a move until Campos was in the best position. 

Lucky for him Campos was more focused on inflicting as much pain as he could instead of checking how drugged Clint was. Campos held his knife in one hand, crusted blood flaking off of the sharp blade. Clint knew he would have only one chance at wrestling the knife away from the large man and he watched carefully as Campos bent down tracing the blade over his right bicep, a fresh trail of blood welling up to the surface and dripping down his arm. 

With a sudden burst of movement Clint reached up with his right hand and wrapped it around Campos’ throat and snatched the blade out of his grip with his left. It happened so quickly Campos was only able to give a startled squawk before Clint had the blade pressed against his throat. 

“You will never break me Campos. Though it was fun to see you try.” Clint growled at the man allowing the most chilling grin to curl his lips, enjoying the flare of pure terror in Campos’ eyes. Clint pushed the blade down into the man’s throat, piercing the brain stem and killing him instantly. He stood up bracing himself against the wall as he prepared himself for the escape that he was going to attempt. He had to get to Phil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! A really dark and crazy chapter there for you!!   
> This is my first time writing any kind of hallucination, so I hope it's not terrible! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	8. And the Righteous Side of Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed, or left kudos! You guys are the reason I keep writing!! 
> 
> Buckle up for a crazy chapter!!

His hands left bright red streaks of blood on the dull grey bricks of the wall as he gingerly made his way to the door of the cell. With every step he could feel blood trickling down his body as the sudden movement of killing Campos had reopened much of the long cut trailing down his torso. The room hadn’t stopped spinning since he had stood up, the gnawing emptiness in his stomach along with the blood loss made him feel as weak as a kitten. 

It took all his willpower not to stop and slide down the wall to rest, because he knew if he stopped he might not be able to get back up again. It was pure adrenalin and stubbornness that kept him on his feet headed towards the door. He knew from observing Campos’ comings and goings that the door was never locked if Campos was in the room, providing him one less obstacle to overcome. 

“Where do you think you’re going boy?” The sharp angry voice had Clint nearly jumping out of his skin. His breathing hitched and he kept his head down continuing his stumbling walk to the door. _It is not real. He is not real. Keep moving._ He kept a running dialogue in his head trying to keep his drug addled mind on track. 

“Don’t you turn your back on me boy. Look at me when I’m speaking to you.” He reflexively cowered waiting for the blow he knew was coming. Sometimes it was a thrown beer bottle, other times it was a fist if he was in reach of the old man. He had learned quickly to hide when the door was thrown open and his father’s yells echoed up the stairs followed by his mother’s soft cries.

The small portion of his mind that was somewhat lucid screamed at him that this wasn’t real, that there was no way his father was in the room with him, he had seen his father’s limp body all those years ago. But the line that separated reality from the horrors in his mind was blurred thanks to the drugs still pumping through his system, and he couldn’t help but revert back into the cowed seven year old boy he had been. 

“You always were a coward, slinking around and hiding. You’re no better now, you can’t even kill like a man, instead you hide and wait and kill from a distance.” His father’s words seemed to close in on him from every direction, his body trembling, breath coming in shallow pants, the war separating reality from fantasy raging on inside his head. 

“You deserve to die in here, like the coward you are.” The harsh words seemed to break through the nightmarish haze in his mind. He was not going to die here, he had to get to Phil and tell him about the mole in SHIELD. Phil would know what to do. Clint wasn’t sure exactly when the older man had begun to win his trust, but he knew that he would probably be dead by now if it weren’t for him. 

His determination renewed, Clint gripped the blade tighter and collected himself trying to bring his familiar mask down and switch into predatory mode. He placed one hand on the door of the cell, it was now or never. He gently eased the door open, keeping his breathing light; to the left of the door was the man who had tied him up earlier when this nightmare had begun. The man turned as he heard the sound of the door, his eyes widening as he caught sight of Clint, shirtless with blood staining much of his body, holding a long black knife threateningly. 

In the few seconds it took for the man to gather himself from the shock of seeing a kid who should be too drugged to move, Clint pounced. Launching himself forwards, he ducked under the harried punch the man threw, and slid down between his feet, ignoring the scrape of the floor on his exposed skin. With one deft flick of his wrist he sliced through the mans right Achille’s tendon. 

The man let out a howl of pain and dropped to one knee, Clint rolled from his slide into a neat crouch then moved forwards, gripping the man’s neck and twisting quickly. The snap of bones echoed through the dark hallway as Clint let the now dead body slump to the floor. He sucked in a deep breath, fighting off the dizziness, before he was able to get a good look at his surroundings. 

He was in what appeared to be an old wine cellar, dimly lit, and smelling faintly of fermented grapes. He had been unconscious when he had been brought in, but he guessed he was still in Bogota, more than likely in Campos’ mansion, or perhaps another house in town. A series of sconces, heavily covered in cobwebs, provided a muted glow, highlighting the way to the staircase out of the damp room. Another cursory glance of the space didn’t reveal any other rooms or hiding places for his gear, which he was sure Campos had kept when they brought his unconscious form in. 

Steeling himself again he started towards the stairs, unsure as to what he would find at the top, but prayed that it was an abandoned building. Alas, Fate was a fickle bitch, as Clint neared the top of the staircase he heard multiple sets of footsteps and barely held back a groan of annoyance. In the shape he was in right now he wasn’t really wanting to have to deal with multiple targets at once. 

_Suck it up Barton, you’ve survived with worse odds._ His inner self piped up, and he was right, that time in Tehran he had been half dead from heat stroke when he took a bullet to the leg as he was fleeing from a hit that had been a set up to kill him. It was a good thing he was about as easy to kill as a cockroach. 

If he could just figure out exactly where he was without being detected he would be better able to form a plan of action, plus he needed to find something to stop the bleeding from the deep cut down his side. He listened carefully, trying to figure out what was going on beyond the door but the noise had died down. After several more minutes of silence Clint sent up a prayer to whoever was listening and opened the door just enough for him to poke his head out and survey the surroundings. 

He was in what seemed to be an old, empty, but rather large, shed. After another tense few minutes of listening he decided he was in the clear and crept quietly out from behind the door. Moving as silently as he could across the weathered wood floor, Clint slowly made his way towards the bigger room, peeking around the corner then drawing back immediately when he caught sight of at least three men sitting around a small table, cards in hand. He guessed they were Campos’ personal bodyguards and were waiting for him to return from his latest round with Clint. 

Leaning back against the wall he held up the black blade and considered his options, wishing desperately he had his throwing stars on him. He knew he needed to drop or incapacitate the men quickly as his body wasn’t really up to a prolonged fight. _Fuck it, I don’t have time to come up with a plan I need to get to Phil now._ Adrenalin coursed through his body as he slipped the knife into the waistband of his black fatigue pants and stepped out from around the corner. 

“Afternoon fellas, or is it morning?” He called out as he sauntered towards them, his voice casual and flippant. “You know, I’m not even sure what time of day it is. Would any of you have a watch to spare?” As the last word left his mouth he had gripped the knife between his fingers and sent it sailing, end over end, where it buried itself in the throat of the man closest to him, who had been beginning to move towards him. 

The two remaining men exchanged quick looks as they charged at Clint, both reaching for the guns in the holsters by their sides. Clint somersaulted forwards just as they opened fire, the rounds sending up showers of splinters as they dug into the wood planks on the floor. He landed in a crouch behind the taller of the two men, dodging a fist that swung out at him and the leg of the other man, then he grabbed the wrist and spun quickly underneath the outstretched limb. The elbow gave way with a sickening snap and the man let out a yelp of pain. Without stopping his movement Clint knocked the gun out of the taller man’s hands as he fell to his knees, cradling his bad arm. 

The sharp retort of a gun had Clint’s ears ringing as he abruptly felt like he had been punched in the back. He snatched the gun from the floor then whirled quickly, squeezing off two successive rounds into the remaining man’s head as the he was reloading. Before the body hit the ground he had already turned to the taller man on the ground and fired one round, point blank, into the man’s skull. The gun slipped from his suddenly numb hand and clattered to the ground noisily. He was panting heavily, having a hard time getting a full breath into his lungs. 

His vision wavered as the color seemed to drain out of everything around him. He shook his head hard, trying to rid himself of the buzzing in his ears. A glance at the dead man at his feet revealed that he had the least amount of blood on his shirt and Clint crouched down to strip the shirt off of the body. Once he had the shirt on, he went to retrieve his knife from the throat of the man toppled halfway out of his chair. Clint wiped the blade on the man’s shirt before tucking it in the waistband of his pants. 

He frowned as his hand came away wet, and held it up to inspect it closer. Blood coated his hand and a few drops ran down his forearm. He didn’t remember getting hit, but knew he didn’t have time to stop, anyone nearby could have heard the shots, and Clint still needed to find Phil. Wiping his hand on his pant leg he continued on towards the door of the shed, intent on finding his handler before his strength ran out. 

..................................................... 

He had been crouched in the grass on the side of a hillside for over twelve hours, binoculars held up to his eyes as he tried desperately to make out any sign that Clint still lived. Coulson sighed in frustration and reached for his water bottle in an attempt to stay hydrated in the harsh midday sun. 

His rather unproductive surveillance of Campos’ large estate told him that Campos was a very busy man, as multiple cars had come and gone even in the dead of night. Other than the man who answered the door Phil had not been able to see anyone else. All of the windows in the house seemed permanently covered in drapes, offering him no glimpses of what was going on within the walls of the house. 

The urge to burst in, guns blazing, was very tempting, but he knew he would stand no chance, by the time he would be able to ascertain his captive agent’s location, they more than likely would have eliminated him. So instead he watched, grasping at straws, desperately looking for any sign of where the archer was being held, with an extraction team on stand-by. 

Holding the binoculars back up to his tired eyes he swept over the property for what felt like the millionth time. With the lazy drone of insects in the background and heat of the midday sun on his back Coulson felt his eyes starting to droop, he hadn’t slept more than a few hours at a time since being separated from his agent. He tried to fight it, he had to keep looking for Clint, but his exhausted body overruled him and his eyes drifted shut as he began to doze. 

The sharp crack of a gunshot caused his eyes to fly open. He scrambled to bring the binoculars up to his tired eyes to find the source of gunfire. Seconds later he heard two quick shots followed by a pause then one final shot. He frantically looked to where he thought he had heard the gunshots come from, but saw only an old rundown building, not much bigger than a storage shed, isolated from the rest of the property. 

It couldn’t have originated from there, he hadn’t seen any activity around that area of the property, and when he had done a short search in the dead of night there had been no evidence that anyone had been inside the shed in years. The surrounding hills must be throwing off the acoustics, making it difficult to pinpoint the location of the sound. Still he kept his eyes trained on the shed, a particular feeling in his gut not allowing him to look elsewhere. 

The door of the shed seemed to move, and Phil drew in a sharp breath, sending up a prayer that it wasn’t a trick of his tired eyes. But was rewarded when the door swung completely open revealing a tall figure he would recognize anywhere, Clint. He barely repressed a whoop of joy, he had known Clint was still alive! Returning his eyes to his agent he realized something was very very wrong. 

Clint was not moving with his usual confidence, instead his steps were unsteady as he listed against the wall of the shed. Phil had seen enough, he needed to get down there to the kid before he walked himself into Campos’ security team. He scrambled quickly, tossing the binoculars and water bottle into his bag and drawing out his Glock. He started moving rapidly down the hill he was perched on, headed in the direction of the archer who had worked his way into Phil’s heart. 

................................................................ 

Clint pushed open the shed door and squinted against the harsh glare of the afternoon sun. His eyes watered profusely as he stepped out into the warm sunshine and attempted to take in his surroundings. Once his eyes adjusted somewhat to the sunlight he took a few staggering steps, leaning heavily on the wall of the shed. 

His vision was fading in and out, he was crashing from his earlier adrenalin high, and his body was starting to protest the abuse. A hot fiery pain spread across his lower back, the pain familiar, he had managed to get himself shot…. again. Clint knew his luck with bullets was never very good, so he really wasn’t that surprised, but it still hurt like a son of a bitch every time. 

Pushing the pain to the back of his mind he returned his focus to planting one foot in front of the other and finding Phil. The rational part of his mind chimed in that he might very well bleed to death before he ever got the chance to find Phil, but he ignored that too, driven only by the sheer force of his will. 

Despite everything his senses still managed to warn him that there was someone headed his way, the prickling of hairs on the back of his neck were unmistakeable. Too exhausted to disappear back into the shed he merely held the knife tightly in his raised hand, in a pathetic attempt to ward anyone off. 

“Barton?” The voice floated to him, sounding like he was underwater. He tried to reply he really did. But the fire in his back was getting hotter and his mouth wouldn’t open, the words stuck on his tongue. He tried to focus his eyes on the approaching figure, his voice soothing and familiar. Clint was vaguely aware that he had fallen to his knees and the figure’s mouth kept moving rapidly but he couldn’t understand it. 

The last thing he remembered before the shadows took him was the comforting scent of fresh cotton on the breeze as a hand brushed gently over his forehead and words floated through his mind. 

_Be still my baby. It’s over._


	9. I'm Not Defending

He had thrown caution to the wind as he crashed through the unkept grasses in a desperate attempt to get to Clint. Phil knew if he had been able to hear the gunshots there was a very good chance someone else did as well and was on their way to check it out. His mind was whirling, hoping Clint was just weak from five days of confinement and nothing more serious, but his gut feeling told him there was something very wrong. 

“Crossroads, this is Sentry, I’m requesting immediate pickup. I have eyes on our missing agent” Phil spoke hurriedly into his comm device activating the extraction team that was awaiting orders in Manizales, a small town less than thirty minutes outside Bogota. 

“Copy that Sentry, the team is mobilizing now. Should be 25 clicks out from your location.” The calm voice of the operations manager at the base in Manizales helped calm some of the panic that had been plaguing Phil nonstop since Clint had gone AWOL. Assured that there was help on its way he returned all of his focus to finding his agent, making his way up a rather steep hill. 

The outline of the shed appeared in his vision as he sprinted up the last of the hills, he was less than one hundred yards away and there was his archer, leaning against the wall of the shed. Phil knew the exact moment Clint sensed his approach, he wasn’t exactly being discreet either, as the kid tensed and turned to face him, his long black knife extended in front of him. As he closed the distance between them he shouted the archer’s name, hoping Clint wasn’t too out of it to attack him. 

“Barton?” His name came out as more of a question when he was close enough to take in the shape the kid was in. The too big shirt hung off of his body and was splotched with more red than white. Clint had a confused and relieved look on his face as he suddenly dropped to his knees. Coulson reached his archer just as he crumpled to the ground, and he was able to get an arm around him before the kid face planted into the ground. 

Phil gently eased the limp weight of his agent into the dirt attempting to get Clint as comfortable as possible. He ran his hands over the archer’s body, checking for the most obvious of injuries, trying to determine what he could do now before the extraction team got here. The majority of the blood seemed to be coming from a deep cut down his right side, Phil pulled his bag closer and reached inside for the extra tee shirt he knew was inside so he could wipe Clint’s torso down and see how bad the damage was. 

He was easing Clint’s shirt up when he felt warm liquid soaking into his pant leg where he was kneeling in the dirt next to Clint’s unconscious form. He looked down and his face paled immediately. The dirt surrounding the agent’s body was now soaked in blood, too much blood to have come from the cut on his chest. Phil’s hand went to Clint’s back, feeling tentatively for a reason he was bleeding so much when he encountered the deep hole on his lower back. 

_Son of a bitch._ Of course he managed to get himself shot. Phil couldn’t stop himself from groaning out loud as he wadded up the shirt to press to the entry wound, trying to stop some of the bleeding. 

"Crossroads this is Sentry. Target has a gunshot wound to the lower back, bleeding heavily. What’s your ETA?” He cursed under his breath as he felt blood leaking through the now soaked shirt he had pressed to the wound. Clint was loosing too much blood too fast, Phil was terrified he was going to lose the archer before help could even arrive. 

“Sentry we’re 8 clicks out. Doc is prepping now for target. Anything else we should know?” Eight minutes, they were eight minutes out, Phil glanced down at his agent, taking in his pale features, and sent a prayer up that Clint could hold on that long. 

“He’s unconscious, but loosing a lot of blood.” 

“Roger that.” Phil could hear the comm link disconnect and the silence loomed around him, his thoughts crashing and tumbling around in his head. Clint had to be okay, the kid deserved so much more than the life he had dealt with, Phil had the feeling that the archer was on the brink of trusting him, a huge step from the person he had been when Phil had marched him off the quinjet from Israel.

Phil's thoughts were interrupted as the archer began convulsing on the ground, causing blood to pour out of the gunshot wound on his back. He watched helplessly as Clint’s muscles contracted rapidly and his body jerked violently. Time seemed to drag on forever until his body quieted, going from a flurry of movement to dead still in a matter of moments. 

.................................................................. 

_Pain. There was so much pain. White hot, like flames licking over his body, for what felt like an eternity he was the pain, there was no Clint, only the angry burn of pain, consuming him, dragging him further and further into the shadows._

_He opened his mouth to scream, to sob, to beg, anything that could stop the pain, but nothing came out from his dry throat. He could only feel the pain turning his body inside out. The scent of fresh cotton filled his mind, and he clung to the comfort it brought like a lifeline._

_Through the burn of the pain a soft voice drifted around him, a voice that took him back to simpler times. A green room, filled with sunshine and the carefree laughter of children, their toys scattered across the worn carpet. The shadows began to clear and he could see her. Long brown hair pulled back in a braid, a few curls escaping to frame her face._

_Her eyes were filled with tears, she had always hated to see him in any kind of distress. He had been a carefree child, all pink flushed cheeks, tousled hair, and chubby fingers. But as he had grown older the bright joy in his eyes started to be clouded with shadows as he had withdrawn into himself. Looking at him now her heart broke seeing the raw wounds inside of him._

_Oh how she ached to hold him again, to smooth the unruly pieces of hair off of his forehead, to tell him everything was going to be okay, but she couldn’t, not yet anyways. He had unfinished business, she could tell that the deep wounds inside him were slowly beginning to heal, the darkness inside him fading._

_“I love you baby. Whatever happens, you can get through it, because you are strong Clint. My beautiful baby boy. I love you.” She whispered the same words she had 13 years ago, and watched as his body relaxed, a strangled sigh passing his lips as she slowly faded back into the shadows._   
..................................................... 

There were a few beats of silence as Phil watched Clint intently, trying to catch the rise and fall of his chest, but after a few seconds of straining his eyes he was almost positive Clint wasn’t breathing. He scrambled over to the archer as he pulled a small blade out of its holster, he held it underneath the kid’s nose, praying the steel would fog up from his breath, but there was nothing. He placed his fingers on Clint’s throat checking for a pulse, anything to indicate he was still there, but he couldn’t feel anything; no steady thrum of a heartbeat, just the sweaty clammy skin of Clint’s neck. 

Phil mentally told himself to stay calm, even though he felt like screaming at the sky, at God, at whoever would listen, for the unfairness of it all. Instead he pushed the pain clawing at him to the back of his mind as he started CPR, desperately willing his young agent to draw a breath. Two more breaths, then compressions. Two more breaths, then compressions. 

A strangled gasp made Phil freeze, his eyes darting to Clint’s face, hoping his mind hadn’t just heard what he wanted to hear. The dull glow of stormy blue-grey eyes met his as the archer took another breath and Phil nearly sobbed in relief. 

“Hey kid, just hold on a little longer, help is almost here.” As if to back up Coulson’s words the low hum of the quinjet could be heard from overhead. Clint managed a small nod before his eyes slipped closed again. Two men, dressed entirely in black slid down ropes and approached the pair quickly and Coulson stood to direct them. 

They secured Clint’s limp body into a stretcher that was dangling from the quinjet and with a muttered confirmation into a comm device the stretcher was quickly pulled up into the jet. One of the men handed Coulson a harness and soon he was being pulled up and into the quinjet as well. 

As his feet touched the solid floor he immediately began unbuckling the harness as his head craned, looking for where they took his archer. A woman in crisp black battle fatigues made her way over to him, a look of sympathy in her eyes as she took in his blood soaked clothes. 

“Agent Coulson. They are working to stabilize Agent Barton as we speak. I have alerted the Miami base that we are on our way to them, if he can just hold on until then, they have a team of the best trauma surgeons waiting for him.” Phil just managed a tired nod, the adrenalin of the day starting to fade from his system and his body was protesting the lack of sleep he had gotten in the past five days. 

“If you would like you could change into these.” In her hands she held a plain black tee shirt and SHIELD issued sweatpants. “You might be a little more comfortable that way.” She remarked as she gestured to his bloody clothing. Phil nodded his thanks, words seeming too difficult to come up with right now, and grabbed the proffered clothing before walking towards the small bathroom towards the back of the quinjet. 

With the door to the small bathroom locked Phil stood, hands braced against the sink, and allowed himself to simply breathe away the panic he had rushing through his system since Clint had disappeared. He lifted his head and stared at his reflection in the mirror, then down at his hands which were stained a rusty red. He turned the water on as hot as he could stand and watched as the blood swirled down the drain. A flurry of movement outside the door broke him from his trance and he quickly finished washing before throwing on the clean clothing the woman had offered him. 

He followed the sounds of activity towards the main cargo area of the quinjet, a sinking feeling settling in his stomach as he rounded the corner and found a medic working hurriedly trying to stabilize Clint as his body convulsed on the stretcher he was on. The heart monitor was beeping incessantly, echoing throughout the interior of the quinjet. Phil looked on, his heart in his throat as the young agent’s body seized again and again. 

Then eerily similar to before, his body suddenly stopped, and the heart monitor fell silent, the absence of sound more deafening than a gunshot. The medic was scrambling, pulling Clint’s shirt off to expose his battered chest, covered in criss-crossing cuts of various degrees of depth as well as dark purple and green bruises marring much of the exposed skin. 

“He’s crashing. I need the jump kit. Now!” The medic’s voice cut through the silence, startling two agents into motion. Phil hadn’t realized he had taken several steps forwards, towards the archer laying still on the stretcher, until a hand landed on his shoulder, gently restraining him. An agent handed the medic a small box which she pulled the paddles out of and powered the device up.

“Everyone clear!” There was a second of silence, then a small whump as Clint’s body flopped with the shock. The process was repeated again, as the few agents gathered waited with bated breath, but still nothing. Phil’s heart was breaking, he couldn’t lose Clint now, he felt he was finally getting through to the archer, breaking through his walls of deadly silence he wrapped around himself. It was a damned waste of a good life. 

The medic raised her eyes to meet his, a glint of sorrow in her eyes, and he desperately begged her to try once more, all without saying a word. She nodded slightly and directed everyone to clear again. The device powered up, with its distinctive whine, and she placed the paddles on the archer’s chest and pressed the button delivering the final shock to his system. Clint’s body jolted with the shock and a second passed with no change, the medic shook her head sadly and turned around intending to shut off the heart monitor when it gave a weak pulse, followed quickly by several more weak beats. 

Phil’s eyes lit up as he looked to his agent’s body, he could just barely make out the rise and fall of his chest. The heart monitor beat unsteadily, but it was a heartbeat nonetheless. The medic whirled back around quickly stringing a bag of blood up to the IV pole before inserting the needle into his body. Phil noticed the thick white bandage stretching across the archer’s back and sent up a quick prayer that the kid would make it through the next two and a half hours to Miami.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING FROM MARVEL NO MATTER HOW MUCH I WISH I DID
> 
> Thanks for reading!   
> Drop me a review and let me know what you all think so far!!


	10. Downward Descending

A little more than two hours later the bright lights of the city of Miami shone through the darkness as Phil watched out the small window of the quinjet. He was tempted to feel relief that they were almost in the clear, but with Clint’s luck as of late he wasn’t going to take anything for granted. 

After the initial scare of losing Clint the rest of the flight had been relatively low key, the archer’s heart monitor still beeping in a near steady cadence, and the two seizures he had were nothing like the ones that stopped his heart previously. The medic worked tirelessly to keep pumping blood into Clint and try to stem the flow of the bullet wound as best as she could. Phil knew he would need emergency surgery once they landed, in order to remove the bullet from Clint’s side. 

He still hadn’t made the call to Director Fury to fill him on what had happened. He knew deep in his gut that Fury would never have sent Clint walking into an ambush like that, but Phil wasn’t sure who he could trust, and right now making sure Clint was given the best possible chance to survive was priority. 

The quinjet landed rather smoothly on the runway, a crew of people running immediately to the ramp, a larger stretcher and crash cart with them, as they had been fully prepared for Clint’s arrival. Phil watched closely as Clint’s unconscious body was taken down to the ramp, to the awaiting medical team, who crowded around him, running more lines into his arms, supplying more fluids as well as morphine to make the archer more comfortable. 

He trailed behind the medical staff as they whisked Clint inside no doubt to prep him for surgery to remove the bullet from his side. A friendly face greeted him on his way in to the medical bay of the base, none other than Dr. Caden Graley. 

“Hey there Phil, tell me, why is it we can never see each other unless there is some sort of crisis?” The light haired doctor joked, trying to lighten the mood despite the heavy lines of stress on his face. Phil smiled slightly, the motion feeling foreign on his face, and clapped a hand to the doctor’s shoulder. 

“You know maybe one of these days we could try to catch up over coffee instead of over a hospital bed?” Graley chuckled a brief flash of humor flickering in his eyes before a somber look replaced it. He shifted his feet slightly, thinking of how to phrase the question that was tumbling around in his mind. 

“What the hell happened out there man?” Graley decided to hold off on the burning question he had as he saw Phil’s face fall, it must have been worse than the initial reports said, because he had never seen Phil’s eyes as shadowed as they were right now. Phil steeled himself as he weighed how much information he wanted to divulge to the doctor, he decided to go for bare minimum until he had a chance to dig and figure out who the hell wanted Clint dead. 

“We were ambushed and they managed to capture Barton.” Phil’s voice was tired as the events replayed in his head, the sheer panic he had felt when Barton’s comm link went down fresh in his mind. “I got to the safe house and tried to pull up his tracker and it was dead. I knew Campos had to have something to do with it, so I stayed close by and watched the mansion, trying to figure out where they were keeping Barton.”

“Then in the middle of the day, I heard gunshots as I was staking out the property. I followed the noise and found him, bleeding out.” Phil glanced down at his hands, still seeing Clint’s blood soaking them, even though they were clean. “I lost him while we were waiting for extraction.” His voice broke slightly, and Graley put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. 

“You did good Phil, you did everything right and managed to kept him alive until the medics could get to him, he’s alive thanks to you. Now they’re going to get him put back together and he’ll be good as new before you know it, and back to his dark, surly ways.” 

“I was finally getting through to him Caden, I mean really getting him to open up. He has so much darkness inside him, but I saw hope in his eyes for the first time since I brought him in, if he can conquer it he will be one of the best agents we have ever had.” Graley’s pager went off and he glanced down before looking back to Phil apologetically. 

“I hate to bail on you, but I need to get scrubbed in and start putting your archer together. He’ll be in good hands.” 

“Thank you Caden.” Phil finally felt some relief rush through his system, it seemed like things were finally starting to go right as he watched Graley’s retreating figure. 

 

..............................................................

He completed what felt like the millionth lap of the small hallway outside of the surgery wing of the medical bay, waiting to hear something, anything really, on the archer’s condition. Phil looked at his watch, nearly cursing when he saw only three minutes had passed since he had last checked. 

It had been nearly six hours since Graley had left him and Clint’s surgery had begun. Roughly two hours ago three more doctors had been paged into surgery, and as they walked by Phil had noticed their tense looks, and the pit in his stomach deepened. He began another lap, too nervous to sit still anymore, every veneer of calm he had was gone. If Fury could see him now he would probably have a cow, Phil was known as the unshakeable agent, which was part of the reason he was Agents Barton and Romanoff’s handler because anyone else would have surely shot the two agents already. 

He let his mind wander, thinking about all the struggles he had been through with his two agents. Out of the two he had made more tangible progress with Clint rather than Natasha, which didn’t surprise him that much from what little information he had been able to glean from the red-haired assassin trust wasn’t something given easily. Whereas Barton seemed to be searching for someone to trust, and Phil was doing everything he could to coax the archer out from the shadows and walls he kept around himself. 

Approaching footsteps shook Phil from his thoughts and he whirled quickly to meet the tired, but satisfied grin of Graley. He felt the feelings of hope and relief fluttering through his system but tamped them down until he could hear what the doctor had to say. 

“Well you look like shit.” Graley greeted him, a twinkle of humor in his eyes. Phil had to channel all of his remaining patience, which wasn’t much, into resisting the urge to flip his friend off. “I’m sure you’re wanting to hear how Barton is doing?” He couldn’t help but push Phil a little more, he knew Barton was in the clear, and couldn’t resist the opportunity to watch the usually unflappable agent look like he wanted to strangle him. 

“Barton made it through surgery just fine.” He didn’t add the parts where they lost him on the table two more times, not wanting to increase Phil’s agitation. “We got the bullet out and patched him up, he has quite the array of stitches in him, so movement is basically out of the question right now. But in a week or so he should be able to be mobile.” 

“His blood toxx screen came back and we believe that Campos had kept him continually dosed up with his hellish drug cocktail. That’s what was causing the seizures, once we figured that out we were able to give him something to counteract its effects and we’re continuing to flush it out of system now.” 

“Son of a bitch. I really hope he managed to kill Campos, because if he didn’t I will.” Phil’s jaw clenched with uncharacteristic anger.

“Well you should be able to ask him pretty soon, we’re bringing him off of the heavy sedatives, and you know how quickly he wakes up from those things.” Phil’s shoulders drooped a little, and he could literally see the tension draining out of his friend. There must be more to the story than Phil was letting on, but he wasn’t about to push, Phil would tell him when he was ready. 

Phil followed behind Graley down the long hallway to the Intensive Care Unit where Clint was resting in his own room, per Coulson’s orders. Graley stopped him as he put his hand on the door to open it. 

“I forgot to tell you, one of the side effects from the drugs Campos had pumped through his system are extreme hallucinations. We’re still trying to flush the drug from his system but we aren’t sure if he is still experiencing the effects.” Coulson looked at his friend, his heart breaking a little again a the thought of how much his agent had gone through and still managed to escape. 

“So he may not remember you, or you may appear as someone else to him, I just don’t want you to be surprised if he is that out of it. We are 99% sure he doesn’t have any brain damage from the drugs or when his heart stopped, but we’re monitoring him carefully. If you need anything hit the call button on the bed and I’ll be right there.” Graley gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before walking away, leaving Phil alone in the hallway. 

He paused just outside of the door and took a deep breath attempting to calm the multiple emotions raging in his head before he went inside. Once he felt he was sufficiently calm he opened the door and stopped short at the sight of the archer lying so still on the bed in the center of the room. 

There were so many lines running from his arms and connecting to various machines which beeped quietly breaking the silence of the room. Almost every bit of skin Phil could see was wrapped in bandages or mottled with deep purple and green bruises. He shook himself from the shock of seeing the usually imposing kid reduced to a beaten body that looked so frail in the bed. 

He snagged the chair and pulled it closer to the bed, intending to stay until his young agent woke up. As he got comfortable in the chair he felt the bone deep exhaustion wash over him, after six long nightmarish days he finally allowed himself to fully relax. He closed his eyes, swearing he would open them in just a minute, but as the various machines beeped steadily in the warm room he surrendered to the urge to sleep, knowing he was just an arm’s length away if Clint needed anything. 

......................................................................... 

He floated in the light grip of the shadows, the pain mercifully gone and he was allowed to simply enjoy the rush of warmth through his veins. He was finally content, there was no pain, no harsh voices echoing in his head, or the faces that haunted his dreams. There was no guilt clawing at him from the inside, there was only peace. A small part of his mind clamored to remind him that he couldn’t stay floating forever and he tried so hard to ignore it, but the shadows slowly began to clear. 

The first thing that registered in his foggy brain was the distant sound of soft, regular beeps, followed by the stringent scent of antiseptic. He pushed through the remaining shadows and cracked his eyes open slowly, squinting against the harsh glare of the artificial lighting and a soft snore caught his attention. Looking to his left he saw his handler, mouth open, snoring in the chair next to his bed, one arm outstretched towards him. 

Clint concentrated hard and was rewarded with a slight twitch of his hands, gathering his strength he managed to lift his hand and flop it onto Phil’s open one. His handler jerked awake, his eyes immediately going to Clint’s bed, widening when he saw the archer was awake. 

“Barton. Damn is it good to see you awake.” The words sounded casual, but Clint was able to see the shine of emotion in Phil’s clear blue eyes. He wondered how bad it had really been, as he didn’t remember much after seeing Phil coming up the hill. He just gave his handler a weary smile in return as he wasn’t sure he had the energy to come up with any words. 

His handler seemed to understand and leaned back in his chair, his eyes traveling over Clint trying to determine if he was in any discomfort. Clint slowly did an inventory of his body, trying to catalogue the injuries he had sustained. The dull ache with every breath he took told him he had a couple broken ribs, not a big deal really, and he could feel the tiny sting of the cuts he knew he had all over his torso. But it was the absence of feeling in his back and legs that caught him off guard and sent a chill of fear down his spine. 

His brain kicked into overdrive, questions flooding his mind, was he paralyzed? What had happened while he was out? Did the bullet cause him to lose a leg? With each successive question he tried harder and harder to move his lower extremities, and failed. Phil noticed the stricken look pass over the young agent’s face, and tried to determine the cause of his discomfort, it wasn’t until he took in the thrashing of the archer’s legs that he realized what was distressing Clint. 

“Your legs are fine Barton. They’re moving just fine.” Clint instantly froze and his head rolled towards Phil, troubled and drug glazed blue-grey eyes met his clear blue ones. “They had to dig that bullet out of your back, you’re just still numbed up from the anesthetics. The feeling will come back soon, I promise.” 

At Coulson’s reassuring tone Clint relaxed back into the softness of the pillows that were propping his head up, releasing a pent up sigh. The shadows were starting to whirl again, and he was suddenly so, so tired, he just wanted to float again. Phil watched as Clint embraced sleep and his breathing evened out within seconds, the kid looked at peace, the drawn, pained look he usually wore, replaced with the innocent look of sleep. He settled himself back in the chair at Clint’s side and spoke softly. 

“Go ahead and get some rest. I’ve got first watch.”


	11. Falling Further and Further Away

Caden Graley stepped into the small room that his friend and his agent were occupying, smiling slightly when he caught sight of Phil bent over Barton’s bed, snoring rather loudly. He quietly stepped around his friend, going to check the kid’s vitals, amazed when he saw how much they had improved from only a few hours before. 

A quick glance at his watch told him that it had been over twelve hours since Phil had stepped off the plane, and if he were a betting man he would have bet that Coulson hadn’t even thought about eating. He reached out and gently shook the shoulder of the older man, nearly jumping out of his skin when Phil sat upright and he found himself staring down the barrel of Phil’s Glock. 

“Jesus Phil! Put that shit away! You about blew my head off!!” Graley’s hands shook slightly as he took a short step back and extended his hands, revealing he wasn’t a threat to Phil or the agent asleep in the bed. Damn, sometimes he forgot that Phil had been in the field for nearly ten years and still had the hair-trigger that all good agents had. 

“I’m sorry Caden.” Phil’s voice was quiet and a little guilty as he lowered the gun, thumbing the safety back on and placing it back in its holster on his thigh. Graley nearly cursed when he saw the shadows in his friend’s eyes, something had gone royally wrong back in Bogota, something that went even beyond the sleeping archer. 

“I was thinking that you needed to take a break and get something to eat.” He watched as conflicting emotions crossed Phil’s face as he looked down at the pale face of his agent. “As both your friend and a medical professional I insist.” He reached out and placed a hand on Phil’s shoulder, steering him away from the bed and towards the door. 

 

“Just a quick bite to eat, I need to be here if he wakes up.” There was something in his voice that Graley wasn’t able to decipher, so he settled instead on reassuring the restless handler, something he had perfected over his years as a doctor. 

“We’ll just go real quick, you really need to eat, and Clint will be just fine. I have most of this area cleared as per your orders. You’ll be back in no time, but you’re no good to him if you are running on fumes. Now c’mon, they have fajitas down in the mess hall.” 

They were having a serious discussion about the latest group of recruits, laughing about the handler’s betting pool on the success of the recruits. Right now most of the handlers were betting on how many recruits Barton was going to send to the medical bay before he was finished with general training. He had sent 34 recruits to the infirmary all in various states of injury, the most common injury being a concussion, followed closely by bruised ribs. 

“I swear the look on Lynch’s face when Barton took down his ‘top’ three recruits was priceless.” Graley nearly choked on a bite of his fajita as he laughed at Phil’s comment. Zane Lynch was one of the newer trainers the Security Council insisted on having, as they were ‘dissatisfied’ with the ‘insubordination’ of the other handlers, and nobody could stand the prick who seemed to have it out for Barton. 

“Good for the kid, I love seeing that guy shown up.” Phil nodded his agreement. It had been because of Phil’s decision to bring Romanoff in that had prompted the Security Council to bring Lynch in. The sudden buzzing of his pager caused him to look down and his face paled. He looked back up to meet his friend’s suddenly anxious eyes. 

“It’s Barton, something is happening.” 

................................................................... 

As the shadows cleared again Clint opened his eyes slowly, straining to see in the dim light of the room. His heart beat quickened when he was able to make out a dull grey brick wall in front of him, smeared with bright red bloodstains. He looked down and saw his cut and mangled torso and wasn’t able to hold back the sob that broke free. It had all been a hallucination, his escape, Phil, the hospital, all a fucking figment of his mind as he tried to escape the prison he had created in his head. 

Footsteps echoed across the stone floor, and he could feel his heart racing beneath his skin. Campos was coming back, and he wasn’t sure this time he wouldn’t beg for the insidious man to put an end to his miserable life. 

The door opened quickly, and Campos moved quickly to his side. A hand gripped his bicep, pressing against a deep cut, and he couldn’t stop the cry of pain that escaped his lips. The normal stoic calm that he could usually rely on to get him through pain gone, the dream of freedom had well and truly broken him. Campos had broken the Hawk. 

Campos’ mouth was moving but he wasn’t able to make out the words, he thrashed harder against his hold, he would not go without a fight. A sharp pain ripped across his chest, he could feel the blood dripping down his torso, adding to the puddle underneath his body. He cried out again, his voice breaking, begging for the end. Warmth suddenly rushed through his veins, and the shadows raced up and drug him down into the abyss. He kept falling, falling, spiraling apart, faster and faster, then finally blessed silence, peace at last. 

.............................................................. 

 

Phil pushed into the dimly lit room, his eyes used to years of training, quickly assessing the situation unfolding in front of him. There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary other than the heart monitor beeping incessantly, too fast for his liking. Next his eyes sought out the archer lying in the bed in the middle of the room and he could almost feel the distress rolling off of him in waves. He crossed the room as he heard a low whimper from Clint, speaking in a low and soothing tone, trying to get through to the kid. 

“Hey, hey. It’s alright. Clint you’re okay.” Once he was close enough he gently gripped the archer’s bicep, hoping to ground him and chase away whatever nightmares were plaguing him. He wasn’t prepared however for the immediate cry of pain that Clint gave as his blue-grey eyes shot open, hazy with panic. He began to struggle weakly against the grip Coulson had on his arm. 

As he thrashed several of the stitches holding the deep cut running down his side popped, and blood began to run down the archer’s torso, soaking into the pristine white bedsheets. The crimson a stark contrast to the snow white linens. 

“Ahhh…. Please. Puhhleasee.” Clint’s sobbing voice broke through the beeping of the heart monitor. “Just do it. Kill me. Please, just end it.” He begged, his voice was rising, the hysteria evident in his tone, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the blood on his chest

Graley had walked in the door as Clint sobbed. Hallucination, that’s what was happening, the kid had to be flashing back to whatever had happened during his captivity. His heart broke as Clint continued to scream, a painful, shattered sound. He quickly made his way over to the IV drip still connected in the archer’s hand and pressed a button, instantly delivering a high dose of morphine to sedate him. 

Within moments Clint’s head fell back on the pillow, his body relaxing into the deep pull of unconsciousness. The room fell silent except for the now steady rhythm of the heart monitor for several minutes, each man absorbed in their own thoughts. Caden looked to his friend, whose shoulders were slumped, one hand still wrapped around his agent’s bicep. 

“Phil, it’s not your fault. I tried to tell you, there was a chance that he would still experience hallucinations until we are able to completely flush the drugs from his system” He placed a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder, shocked when he felt the shaking of soft sobs. 

“What did Campos do to him? He begged, fucking pleaded to die. Clint does not beg, for anything.” Coulson’s voice was rough with emotions as he tried to hold back more tears. His heart ached for the archer, and he prayed that the kid would be able to pull through this and with help put himself back together. 

“With these kinds of hallucinations it’s possible he won’t remember them.” Graley offered, grasping at straws to give his friend a little solace. He caught Phil’s nod as he walked out of the room, trying to give the older agent some time to sort through his emotions without a witness. 

The soft click of the door echoed through the room and Phil put his head in his hands and wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awhh poor Phil!!! This chapter, as well as the next few are really hard to write, but it's important to stress how much this whole ordeal has fucked with Clint's head, poor baby!! Plus there was a small tidbit of VERY important information hidden in there, cheers to those of you who pick it up when I mention it later!! 
> 
> More feels to come! 
> 
> Thanks for reading! xoxo


	12. I'm Getting Closer Every Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that it has taken me this long to get this next chapter posted! Between going to school full time and working a full time job I've stayed very busy. Plus my muse hasn't exactly been helpful as of late either!   
> So without further ado, here is the next chapter of Colombia!

For the next two days Clint had moments of clarity, followed by more hallucinations, the line between reality and fantasy blurred as he floated in and out of consciousness. Phil never knew what to expect when the archer came to, sometimes he woke, eyes clear and he would look at Phil like he was a lifeline. Other times he woke screaming, pleading for it all to stop, those times were the hardest to deal with. 

After his latest bout of hallucinations Phil was wiped out, physically and emotionally exhausted, how long were these horrible hallucinations going to last? He hadn’t left the archer’s room except to use the restroom and the small shower, as he wasn’t comfortable leaving Clint for any length of time in case the kid would wake up in the grips of another hallucination. 

A soft knock at the door caused him to bolt upright in his seat and try to bring his emotions into check. Over the past week he had come to envy both Clint and Natasha for their ability to bring down an impassive mask no matter the circumstances. The door cracked open and Graley’s shaggy blond head poked into the room. 

“Oh good, you’re awake. How’s the kid doing?” The doctor stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him, before he walked over to Clint’s bedside to check his vitals. His latest rounds of blood toxin screenings showed that the last bits of the drug Campos had given him were nearly gone from the archer’s system. Hopefully if Clint remained hallucination free for at least twenty-four hours he would be cleared to return to the SHIELD base in DC.

And it couldn’t have come at a better time, as he took in the appearance of his friend. Coulson was in rumpled clothing, the dark shadows under his eyes a testament to his weariness, making Graley want to sedate the handler before he worried himself to collapse. Phil merely grunted in response as he tried to smooth the rumpled material of his SHIELD issued tee shirt. 

“Today I’m going to take him off the sedatives, I’m hopeful that the drug has worked its way out of his system enough that he shouldn’t be experiencing any more hallucinations.” He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder trying to reassure the anxious handler. Coulson released a pent up sigh and paced at the end of the archer’s bed, he had been too worried about Clint’s health to try and dig up any information on who had sent down the order on the archer’s assignment from hell. 

“Listen, Phil, I need you to take a break here for a bit, I don’t think you’ve left this room for more than a couple minutes at a time since you got here. I’ll stay and watch the kid, get yourself a long hot shower and some food. I don’t wanna see your face around here for at least two hours. Now go on!” Graley shooed the handler out of the room, ignoring Phil’s small noise of protest. Phil grumbled as he left the room, knowing in his frazzled state he was no match for Graley. 

“Fine, but if he comes to will you let me know? I need to be there for him.” Graley nodded an affirmative and Phil turned and headed down the hall towards the showers, already starting to dial a number on his phone. After three short rings a small click indicated the line had been picked up.

“It’s Coulson. I need you in Miami as soon as you can get here. We’re dealing with a situation and I want to bring you in on it.” There was a brief moment of silence before a husky voice answered. 

“Consider it done. I’ll be there in less than two hours.” Another small click indicated that the line had been disconnected and Phil pocketed the phone, the knot in his gut easing slightly. 

.............................. 

Exactly one hour and thirty-eight minutes later a petite, red-haired agent stepped off the small Quinjet she had bullied the DC base operators into letting her have. Her full lips quirked up, sometimes having a reputation as deadly as her namesake came in handy. A brief glance at her phone revealed the wing and room number in which she would find Coulson. 

She thought back to the very short conversation she had with her handler earlier, something had the usually unflappable agent spooked, and she was going to make it her personal mission to figure out what it was and eliminate the threat. In the two years since she had been brought into SHIELD, she could feel her guard starting to relax and she would be damned if she let something step on the small amount of happiness she had been able to find for herself. 

A few minutes of winding through the long, brightly lit hospital hallways had put the red-haired agent on edge, dark memories of bright lights and pain swirled in the back of her mind, causing her to pick up her pace. By the time she reached the door at the end of a hallway and managed to breeze past the two guards stationed at the entrance to the hall, her mood was bleak and her skin crawling. 

She opened the door and bit back the small gasp of surprise when she saw the battered body of her one time sparring partner, lying in the bed, multiple tubes running from his arms to the machines crowded around him. She tore her gaze from the agent and met the clear blue eyes of her handler, who looked nearly as haggard as the kid in the bed.

"Natasha. I'm glad you made it." She gave a short nod in response.

“You’re lucky, I just got in from Rome.” Her eyes flickered to the agent lying in the hospital bed again, amazed at how thin the usually toned and muscular agent was. But despite the bruises that covered most of the skin she could see, she still felt a pull towards the agent, that same magnetism that nearly had her compromising her mission in Israel just to see if he tasted like the minty gum he had been chewing. 

“…..been compromised. Natasha, are you listening to me?” Her handler’s voice broke through the thoughts of needing to soothe the injured Hawkeye and she pulled her gaze back to Coulson’s. 

“I’m sorry, it was a long assignment, I must be jet-lagged.” The lie rolled easily off her tongue as she tried to cover her unabashed interest in the injured agent. Phil merely raised an eyebrow, taking her obvious lie in stride, the Black Widow never suffered from jet-lag, but he continued where he thought she had last been listening. 

“This entire assignment was a set-up. I just don’t know who organized it, or how far up the corruption goes.” Natasha opened her mouth but Phil continued on before she could get a word out, “And no, I don’t think Director Fury is involved. I think he was duped just like we were.” 

“They had a team on the ground, waiting for us to land. And once they had Barton I never heard or saw anyone again. This whole assignment was for Campos to get his hands on Barton.” The handler began pacing at the end of the bed, reliving each panic inducing second after Clint had disappeared. 

“Why Barton?” Natasha found herself asking. “He was still in training, it’s not like he would know SHIELD secrets.” Phil paused in his circuit of the room and ran a hand down his face. 

“I believe it was Barton who killed Campos’ son three years ago. But Barton hasn’t been lucid enough to question.” The red haired agent mulled that piece of information over quietly, everyone in the mercenary circles had heard about the ruthless takedown of the Colombian drug lord’s son, in his own living room nonetheless. Those same mercenaries whispered amongst themselves about Hawkeye, a ghost, and one of the most renowned killers at that time. 

“So it was all about revenge.” A concept she was intimately acquainted with as she had spent her every waking second intent on destroying the Red Room, even if she destroyed herself in the process. Until Phil had flushed her out of hiding in Moscow and brought her in, beginning to heal the ragged wounds inside her. 

“Yes. But there has to be someone pulling the strings, both in getting Barton the assignment and in feeding information to Campos and his men.” Phil took a deep breath, trying to calm the emotions raging inside him. “We lost Barton, several times actually, and he would have died if I hadn’t had dumb luck on my side. I’m going to need you to keep an eye on Barton once we return to DC.” His clear blue eyes locked on to her deep green ones.

“I have some business to attend to once we make it back to DC, and I don’t know if whoever engineered this is going to keep going after Barton. I need someone I trust to watch his six when I can’t be there.” Natasha felt a warm feeling buzz through her, Coulson trusted her, and trust was a rare commodity in her line of work. The elation was short lived when she realized she had been relegated to babysitting duty. She kept the sigh of annoyance to herself and answered her handler. 

“I assure you he will be fine.” A slight rustling sound followed by a low groan caused her gaze to whip to the agent, now her duty, in the bed. She caught the stormy grey-blue hue of his eyes and knew she was going to be playing with fire when it came to the archer who had a past nearly as dark as her own. 

.......................... 

The low tones of muttering floated through Clint’s head as the shadows slowly cleared from his mind. He cracked open his eyes and grunted at the bright light that filtered through. The low grunt was enough to attract the attention of the two people in the room who had been arguing in low voices and they turned to look at the bed. 

As Clint’s eyes focused he was able to make out the familiar features of his handler, but it was the piercing emerald green eyes next to Coulson that drew his attention. The beautiful, yet deadly, Natasha Romanoff stood at the foot of his bed, looking far from happy. 

“Ah, Barton, how are you feeling?” Coulson’s soft voice broke through the silence, and Clint couldn’t help but feel like he somehow interrupted the pair during an important conversation. At Coulson’s question he did a quick inventory of himself, finding everything in working order, despite the aches and pains, which he knew meant he was healing. 

“I’m alright.” His voice, hoarse from his bouts of screaming during his hallucinations, cracked and he dissolved into a fit of coughing. Phil rushed to grab the glass of water by the archer’s bedside and waited for the coughing to pass. Clint’s hand clutched at his ribs, jarred by the movement and let out a low groan of pain as he sipped at the water Coulson offered. 

“I’ll refrain from asking you any in depth questions right now.” Phil let a rare grin cross his face at the kid’s look of annoyance. “Dr. Graley said you were cleared to return to DC, that is if you feel up to it.” Clint was extremely aware of the green gaze glued to him as he nodded to his handler, hating how weak he knew he appeared at that moment.

“Good, we’ll leave in an hour, I’m just going to go finish checking the preparations for the quinjet.” His handler crossed the room a muttered a few words to the Widow that he couldn’t catch before disappearing out the door, leaving Clint alone with a very on edge Black Widow. 

The green eyed agent pulled a chair up to her and settled herself into it gracefully, her emerald gaze never leaving his. Clint shifted slightly in the bed, never having had the chance to actually speak to the other agent since he had been brought in from Israel, and an awkward silence fell over the room. Neither agent knowing what to say as small talk didn’t really cut it in their field of work. 

Clint had a million questions racing through his mind, but knew the quiet agent sitting in front of him probably wouldn’t have the answers he needed, what Clint needed was his handler. He could feel his eyelids starting to droop as his body tried to force him to fall back asleep again so it could heal. Just as he started to fall into the darkness he could just barely make out the husky timbre of Natasha’s voice.

“It’s okay, I’ve got first watch.” 

............................. 

 

Phil finally allowed himself a small breath of relief as he stood at the end of the archer’s bed in the medical wing of the SHIELD base in DC. It had been a mercifully uneventful flight that the battered agent had slept through, while he briefed Natasha on his plans to determine who wanted Clint dead. 

Having reassured himself that Clint was on his way to healing, he excused himself from the room, leaving behind Natasha, who had taken her word of watching over the archer seriously and hadn’t left his side yet. Phil headed out of the medical wing and through the winding hallways, intent on finding Director Fury. What he didn’t notice was the form of Zane Lynch who tailed behind him before ducking into the handlers’ quarters. 

........................... 

He closed himself in his room and going to his bed pulled out a small duffel bag from underneath the bed. A few seconds of rummaging produced a small black phone, which he powered up and keyed in an access code before dialing a number, listening as it rang two times before a voice came across the line. 

“I trust you’re checking in to tell me that the Hawkeye is no longer a problem?” The voice was deep and smooth as velvet. 

“Actually Sir, I have a little bit of bad news. Hawkeye was just brought to base this morning, alive.” He knew his boss was going to be angry, but wasn’t prepared for the roar that echoed across the secure line. 

“God damn it!!” The man on the other end of the line brought his fist down on the expensive mahogany desk he was seated at. “I knew that Campos was too incompetent for the job! I practically give him the Hawk gift-wrapped and he still fucked it up.” 

Lynch gripped the phone tight in his hand, it was never a good sign when his boss was angry, people tended to ‘disappear’ and that was the last thing he wanted to deal with tonight. There were a few moments of silence before the voice came across the line again, sounding completely composed.

“Keep an eye on the archer and continue with regular reports, I will have to come up with another solution to our little problem.” With that said the man disconnected from the secure line and leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled, deep in thought. Hawkeye was proving himself to be more of a nuisance than he had planned for, it was a good thing he was always up for a challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun Duun Duuuuuun!! This story isn't quite over yet!!   
> Kudos to those who remember who Lynch is without having to go back and reread!!   
> Leave me a review and let me know what you think!   
> As Always, Thanks for Reading! xo


	13. To the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *****trigger warning*****   
> This chapter deals with self harm

Less than a week had passed since Clint was brought back to the DC base and already he was making life hell for any of his attending nurses and especially Dr. Graley. The archer, used to having little to no downtime, was chomping at the bit to get out of the hospital bed and back onto the range. Graley was standing next to Clint’s bed, clipboard in hand, in another heated argument with the stubborn archer. 

“I told you, I don’t need the pain meds anymore!” Clint’s voice lashed out at the doctor, he was tired of being confined to the bed, tired of staring at the same four white washed walls, as everyone tip toed around him like he was going to break any second. The only ones who treated him halfway normal were Phil and Natasha, the latter had been spending an abnormal amount of time hanging around his room, and Clint was beginning to get suspicious. 

“Barton, be reasonable. You had surgery to remove a bullet from your gut less than ten days ago! You should barely be moving let alone being taken off all medications!” Graley waved his clipboard around, clearly exasperated with the agent in front of him, whose attitude had returned full force after the effects of Campos’ drug had worn off. 

“I don’t care how long ago it was! I told you and I’ll tell you again. No more meds. Or so help me God, I will walk right out of this medical wing.” The archer crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw set stubbornly, and Graley knew he would make good on his threat. Graley released a long sigh, knowing there was no way he would be able to talk the kid out of this. 

“Can I just ask why you’re refusing them? I know you are still hurting, even with the dosage that you’re on.” Graley softened his voice, trying to emulate the way Coulson talked with the kid, hoping to get a response out of him. But the second the words were out of his mouth Clint’s eyes darkened dangerously as his trademark blank mask fell back down over his features. 

“Get out.” Clint’s vocal cords had healed from the bouts of screaming during his hallucinations and the words came out growled and deep, leaving no room for argument. Graley wanted to smash his head with his clipboard, he didn’t know how Coulson could deal with the kid who had mood swings more mercurial than the weather back in his home state of Nebraska. Graley simply sighed again and turned around to walk out of the room. As he shut the door behind him he looked up to find Phil standing in front of him.

“He’s that bad huh?” His friend questioned him, sympathy in his voice. 

“Yeah, he wants to be pulled off the painkillers I have him on, and won’t even tell me why.” Graley looked at Phil, feeling helpless. “I know he still hurts, he thinks he’s really sneaky and stoic, but I can read him like a book Phil, the kid is still in a lot of pain, but is refusing help. What do I do?” 

He spread his hands out, hoping his friend would have a better idea than holding Clint down as they forced the painkillers down his throat. Phil shifted on his feet slightly, feeling as if he had neglected the archer the past couple days as he tried to track down who had sent the assignment to Fury. 

“I’ll talk to him okay? And if he refuses them there is nothing we can do about it but respect his wishes. Who knows, maybe a few miserable days in pain and he will change his mind.” Graley shook his head, knowing as well as Phil did that there was no one as stubborn as Clint and he would not be changing his mind, even if it killed him. 

.................................... 

Clint stared at the door as it softly clicked shut behind Dr. Graley trying to contain the dark thoughts swirling through his mind. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about his time spent in the dirty cell at Campos’ mercy. He knew Phil had tried to get him to open up several times, but every time he just couldn’t seem to get the words out. How could he tell Phil the horrors he relived in that cell when he just wanted to forget? 

The whispered voices in the back of his mind had returned, and every now and again when he looked down he could see the rusty stain of blood coating his hands. It took every ounce of his shattered self control to keep himself from screaming as memories came rushing back, faces from his past crowding around to haunt him, each voice clamoring to be heard, adding on another layer of guilt. 

He wouldn’t tell Graley that he wanted to be off the medications because they made him feel hazy, and reminded him of the time he spent as a drooling, hallucinating mess thanks to the drugs Campos kept pushing through his system. He wouldn’t tell the doctor he wanted to be off medications because he felt he needed to suffer through every bit of pain in order to stay sane. He wouldn’t tell the doctor that the pain eased some of the guilt eating away at him. It was easier to snap at Graley than to explain the emotions that Clint wasn’t even sure he understood. He couldn’t explain how fucked he was in the head or he would be locked up. 

A soft knock at the door stopped him from venturing farther down that dark path in his mind and he blew out a deep breath at the welcomed interruption. The door opened and his handler stepped inside quiet as always. Clint took a second to observe the dark shadows under Coulson’s eyes and allowed another lance of guilt to cut through him as he realized he had been adding to his handler’s stress, after everything Phil had done for him. 

“How are you feeling Barton?” Phil’s voice was even and soft, a soothing balm on his frazzled psyche. 

“I’m good.” He forced the two words out, afraid to say much more, knowing the usually strong tether on his emotions was frayed and approaching a breaking point. Phil simply took the archer’s lie in stride as he pulled a chair closer to Clint’s bedside and settled himself in it. 

“Want to tell me why Dr. Graley is wanting to pull out his hair and threatening to start drinking on the job for the third time this week?” Phil took advantage of the close range to look over the archer, noting that the bruises had begun to fade, but the haunted look in his eyes was worse than ever. Even his attempt at humor had fallen flat when that usually roused the playful side of Clint, as Phil suspected he not so secretly enjoyed terrorizing the hospital staff. 

“I told him I wanted to be taken off all medication.” Phil had to keep himself from flinching at the dead sound of Clint’s voice. He wanted desperately to reach out and soothe the troubled archer, but knew Clint would not approve of that. Instead he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back into his chair looking at Clint thoughtfully, hoping the scrutiny would cause the kid to crack and reveal his motives. Barton merely raised an eyebrow at his handler, as if to tell him he wasn’t going there. 

“If that’s what you really want, I’ll make sure Graley takes you off all medications…” Clint’s eyes swiveled to meet his, a tiny glimmer of hope in his eyes. “On one condition though.” The glimmer of hope disappeared, and was replaced by suspicion. 

“What’s the condition?” 

“I want you to stay in medical until Graley clears you, none of your usual escape artist shit.” Phil stared his agent down as he watched the indecision cross the archer’s face. Finally Clint nodded his approval. 

“Get me off the meds and I’ll do whatever Graley wants.” Phil couldn’t help the way his eyes widened at the determination in Clint’s voice. Something was seriously wrong with the archer, and Phil had no idea how to help. Sensing he had reached the end of the conversation with the stubborn kid Phil stood and began to move to the door. 

“I guess I’ll go inform Dr. Graley that he’s to take you off all medications, effective immediately. Try and get some rest Barton, there are a few new recruits who need to be taken down a few notches, and I’m sure you’re getting rusty with all this bed rest.” That got a snort out of the kid who waved his hand dismissively. 

“Tell them I’ll take them seriously after they take a bullet for the first time. I’ll be out there soon, they better get practicing.” Phil let out a soft laugh, his redirection had worked, some of the tension drained out of the kid as he laid back against the pillows. 

“I’ll be sure to pass your rather intimidating message along.” Phil smirked as the archer flipped him off from his bed. 

“Don’t you have other people to antagonize Phil?”It took all of Phil’s training to keep his jaw from dropping, that was the first time Clint had ever used his first name, something that he was coming to learn from both Natasha and Clint was a sign of trust. And judging from the somewhat shocked look on the kid’s face he realized what he did as well. 

“Now that you mention it, I do suppose I haven’t tormented Directory Fury nearly enough yet today. Thanks for the reminder.” Phil waved cockily at Clint before he opened the door and stepped outside, just barely catching Clint’s softly spoken, 

“Don’t mention it.” 

............................. 

_“Please no!” Clint cried out, cut off by the sound of low dark laughter. He caught the flash of silver out of the corner of his peripheral vision as the blade sank into his chest with a sickening sound as it cut through his flesh. His arms flailed madly as he tried to buck the larger man off of his body._

_“Do it again.” The low voice of his brother cut him deeper than any blade ever could, what had he done to make his brother hate him so much? The Swordsman pulled the blade out of his chest and he could feel the blood leaking out of the wound, soaking into his worn tee shirt and onto the straw below him._

_A white hot pain erupted across his chest as the blade was drawn across his chest again, leaving a trailing deep wound. Black dots began to dance in his vision as he weakly tried to lift his hands to cover the deepest wound. Laughter danced in his head as the sound of footsteps faded._

_“P-please, Barney….. Save me.”_

Clint awoke viciously, a scream trapped in his throat, sweat rolling down his back, as he held a long black blade out in front of him, warding off any potential attack. His keen eyes searched the shadows for any sign of movement as his right hand rubbed at the faded scar that ran across his chest, the phantom pains as sharp as they had been that night five years ago. Once he was sure there was no immediate threat he lowered the blade in his left hand and took a deep breath, trying to get the panic racing through his system under control. 

The small room echoed the raspy sounds of his pants, his heart thundered out of control, and with each second that passed Clint could feel the panic spiraling higher. He whipped his feet to the side of the bed and stood quickly, gripping the chair in front of him as his vision wavered and his body protested the sudden movement. 

In that moment he didn’t care about the pain, the blind panic was driving him, and he had to get out of the suddenly too small room. He limped across the room and out of the medical wing, using the walls as a crutch until his legs gave out. Slumped against the wall he was able to survey his surroundings and wasn’t surprised when he found himself in the archery range, his personal escape. The motion sensing lights had flicked on when he entered the room and bathed the range in a soft glow.

But the light couldn’t chase away the shadows crowding around in his mind. Whispers swirled insidiously in his head, casting blame and sowing seeds of self hatred, louder and louder the voices rose in volume, each clamoring to lay a list of sins down at his feet. The blade that had been clutched in his hands clattered to the ground as he clapped his hands to his ears, trying to mute the ever growing roar of voices. 

“No! No! NO!” He cried out, desperate for relief from the nightmare he couldn’t seem to wake himself from. He lashed out, punching the wall, and the tendrils of pain that shot up his arm quieted the voices slightly. His harried mind grasped onto the pain and he reached to his side, patting the floor around him searching for the knife he dropped.

His fingertips brushed against the blade’s edge as he fumbled for a good grip on the weapon. Once it was firmly in his grasp he brought it up to his thigh and quickly pushed the blade into his flesh, hissing at the sharp bite of pain, before drawing it quickly downwards, the blood welling up from the wound and soaking into the thin cotton shorts he had on. 

The roar of voices in his head quieted to a low hum as Clint could feel the blood pouring down his leg from the rather deep cut. But all too soon the sting wasn’t enough and the taunts began to echo through his head again.

_“You’re nothing but a killer….. A coward!! You were always the weak one son……”_ The voice of his father had him lifting the blade and opening another gash alongside the first one. He gritted his teeth at the pain as the blade sliced easily through the muscle of his thigh. He was so focused on his task he didn’t catch the feather light sound of footsteps creeping up beside him until a low husky voice broke the trance. 

“Clint, please stop.”


	14. I'm Falling

The fiery haired assassin watched as the archer’s head lolled back against the pillows supporting him, succumbing to the pull of healing sleep again, as she found herself wondering for the thousandth time in the past hour what it was about the wounded agent in front of her that drew her like a moth to the flame. 

Every time their eyes met she felt the faintest brush of a memory, trying to free itself from the door she kept them locked behind in her mind. The feeling of deja-vu that happened when their gazes clashed kept her constantly off balance, a feeling she didn’t quite appreciate as any hesitation could get her killed, a mantra that had been drilled into her head since she could remember. 

Shaking her head to rid it of the unwanted thoughts she returned her emerald gaze to the sandy haired archer who was snoring softly. Satisfied Barton was sleeping soundly she slipped soundlessly out of the room and melted into the shadows of the dimly lit hallways. Moving with a preternatural grace born of years of training Natasha moved through the maze of corridors to her quarters situated just doors down from Barton’s, something she hadn’t realized before. 

She locked the door behind her and surveyed the small space that belonged to her, the bed was neatly made, clothes occupied the space of one half of the closet, the other half full of weapons. She made her way to the closet and pulled the two Glocks from their holsters wrapped around each of her thighs and gave each a cursory inspection before placing them in their spots in the small armory she had accumulated. 

After swiping the small iPod from the nightstand she meandered into the bathroom, intent on drawing herself a bath to soothe the kinks in her neck and back, probably caused from the amount of time she had spent in the uncomfortable chairs in Barton’s room. While the water ran, heating to the right temperature she plugged the iPod into the docking station on the counter and chose a soft calming playlist she had made just for situations like this. 

Once the water was satisfactorily hot she squeezed a small amount of scented soap into the water, watching with childlike delight as the soap bubbled, releasing the calming scent of vanilla into the air. She sank into the water with a sigh, the nearly scalding water instantly sinking into the tight muscles in her body. Natasha sighed in contentment, allowing the soft sounds of the Russian lullaby and the calming scent of vanilla to relax her mind as well. 

Her eyes slowly drifted shut of their own accord, the melody of the lullaby bringing back hazy memories of a different time, memories of sunshine and laughter. 

_“Папа! Папа!” (Papa! Papa!) She flung herself down from the fourth stair step straight into the arms of her father. She giggled crazily as he swung her through the air before bringing her up to eye level for a whiskery kiss, causing yet another fit of her laughter to ring out through the room._

_“Ah, my baby girl, you grow more beautiful with every day that passes. Soon you shall be the most beautiful girl in all of Russia, and no man will be able to resist your wiles!” Dmitriy Romanoff looked down at the unruly mop of vibrant red curls through which peeked out the deepest green eyes and found himself thanking God again for the gift of his daughter._

_The precocious four year old struggled to be let down, kicking her legs wildly until her father complied. The second her short legs hit the ground she raced back up the stairs, intent on repeating her jumping antics, knowing her father would always catch her. A sharp knock on the door startled her, causing her foot to slip on the step as she lost her balance and tumbled to the bottom of the stairs._

_The breath was promptly knocked out of her and her green eyes began to well with tears as she took in several shuddering breaths, a precursor to the screams that were sure to follow. Dmitriy rushed to scoop his daughter up in his arms and soothe her as he went to answer the door. The red haired toddler quieted quickly as another harsh knock sounded followed by loud angry shouts. Dmitriy set his daughter down and moved in front of her._

_“Natalia, listen to Papa, I need you to go to the back door and run as far and as fast as you can. Do you remember where our special spot is?” He glanced behind him and watched as she wiped a tiny fist across her eyes and nodded up at him, her tear stained face full of fear. “Go Natalia, Papa will be there for you soon.”_

_She took several steps backwards towards the kitchen and hid behind the doorframe, not wanting to leave her father. She peeked our from her spot and watched as her father opened the door to face an angry looking man. She covered her ears as the men’s voices raised in volume, until they were shouting at each other. With her hands over her ears the shouts were muffled when a sharp crack echoed through the house._

_Natalia looked around the doorframe in horror as her father’s limp body crashed to the floor, a deep crimson stain spreading from the hole in his head. She must have cried out as the man’s eyes whipped up and met hers, a gleam of evil spreading as he moved towards her._

_“Ah, Natalia. How unfortunate it is that you had to witness this little scuffle here. Would you like to come with me now dear?” He held out a hand to her as four other men filed in the door, each tossing a harsh smelling liquid over the floors and furniture. She shrank further back away from the man and he tsked under his breath._

_“Ivan, the men are finished here, are you coming?” The voice could barely be heard over the suddenly loud whoosh followed by loud crackling and immense heat. Tears spilled from her green eyes and tumbled down her face._

_“I wish you had come along willingly Natalia.” Ivan murmured quietly before backhanding the child. Natalia fell to her knees as her vision swam, unable to protest as she was roughly picked up and carried out of the burning remains of her home. The last thing she heard before she gave into the darkness was Ivan’s whispered words,_

_“Welcome to the Black Widow Program Natalia. You’re going to like it here.”_

Natasha jerked upright, her chest heaving as tears poured down her cheeks. The immediate haze of panic receded as she was not able to find any attackers and she sucked in a deep breath, trying to clear the acrid scent of smoke from her mind. Several seconds ticked by before she released the breath and looked around her, the water was now lukewarm, all traces of bubbles gone, the playlist on the iPod finished, the tranquil moment well and truly shattered. 

She stood and reached for the towel hanging just to the side of the tub and scrubbed herself down quickly, trying to wipe the memory from her skin as well as her mind. Prowling from the bathroom she dressed in a pair of loose sweatpants she had pilfered from Phil the first week she had been here, and pulled on a simple grey v-neck then strapped only one holster to her thigh, the reassuring weight of her Glock chasing away the remaining threads of panic her memories usually left behind. 

Checking the time she cursed to find that she had been asleep for nearly four hours, much longer than she had wanted to leave Barton alone. She, better than most, knew how terrifying it was to wake up in a bed, in pain and alone. She slipped out and into the hallway, making a bee line for the medical wing of the base. 

As she passed the entrance to the gym she could feel the hairs at the back of her neck prickling, her instincts screaming at her that something wasn’t right. Keeping one hand on the grip of her weapon she pushed soundlessly into the training center, senses on high alert, trying to determine what was wrong. 

The low sounds of a man’s voice caused her head to whip towards the far back corner, where the door to the shooting range was located, a barely discernible glow coming from the crack under the door. Moving silently she approached the door and listened intently, trying to pick up any other sounds. The soft groan of pain solidified her resolve as she opened the door quickly and slipped inside. 

The dim safety lights had been triggered and cast a faint glow over the range, but her eyes immediately zeroed in on the form huddled against the wall. A few steps closer and she could make out the features of the archer she had been tasked with protecting, another two steps and she caught the sharp metallic scent of blood. The archer still hadn’t detected her presence and was continuing to draw a long black blade down his thigh. Her eyes widened as she realized what he was doing, and before she could stop herself the words were out of her mouth. 

“Clint, please stop.” Her words caused him to jump, the blade sinking deeper into the muscle of his thigh. He raised his tormented blue-grey eyes up to her green ones as she moved closer, both hands raised in front of her to show him she meant no harm. He surrendered as she approached, the hand slipping from the blade to fall limply on the ground. 

Natasha knelt down by his side, one hand examining the damage done to his leg as the other quickly yanked the knife out and slipped it into the slot on her holster. At her touch the archer had closed his eyes and hissed as she removed the knife, blood now flowing freely from the two gashes in his leg. 

"You need stitches Clint.” She hesitated slightly, the sound of his name on her tongue foreign, yet enjoyable. 

"Please don't drag me back to medical." The plea was whispered, his voice layered with emotions she was all too familiar with. The battered archer she was helping to his feet was running from his demons, something she had been doing since she could remember. An uncharacteristic lump formed in her throat, how many times had she pleaded for one kind word, or mercy and had it been denied. Maybe tonight they could both find a little comfort.

............................... 

Her soft husky voice had broken through the walls, and when he looked up at her, the lights had cast a soft halo around her fiery red hair, and he was suddenly too aware of what he had been doing. Still, he hadn’t seen an ounce of disgust or reproach in her emerald eyes, instead he saw similar shadows reflected in the green depths. 

She had told him he needed stitches as she pulled the blade from his leg, and he begged her not to take him back to medical, his voice heavy with guilt and shame. Yet again she surprised him by simply helping him to his feet and shuffling him out of the training center and down the hallways. 

His tired mind barely registered as they stopped in front of a door briefly, before he was moving again. Her soft hands led him into the bathroom where she made him sit on the closed lid of the toilet then wrapped a thick towel around his leg. 

“Hold this. I’ll be right back.” She placed his hands over the towel and pushed them down gently before disappearing from the bathroom. He heard the door close and a couple minutes passed before she reappeared in the doorway a large bottle of vodka clenched in one hand, a compact first-aid kit in the other, and a small smile curving her full lips. 

“I don’t have anything for the pain as I stitch you up, but maybe the vodka will take your mind off it?” The last part was punctuated as she offered the bottle to him, a hesitant look in her eyes. Clint found himself reaching for the bottle and taking three large pulls, the liquid tracing a fiery trail down to his stomach before settling, warmth rushing through his veins.

Her hand reached back out and he looked at her questioningly before handing the bottle back over to her, watching in rapt interest as she took four equally large pulls then handed the bottle back and picked up a needle and sterile thread. She took a deep breath and removed the towel, now soaked through with his blood, and glanced at him. Clint nodded slightly and took another deep pull from the bottle before gritting his teeth. 

The needle slipped through one end of his torn skin and Natasha worked quickly and efficiently, pulling the wound closed, keeping her stitches neat and small. The voices that had been tormenting Clint were just a distant buzz in the back of his head as he took another long swig of the vodka. The alcohol rushed through his system quickly and Clint began to feel its effects, he was blessedly numb. 

With his head somewhat cleared from the clamor of the voices and guilt he took this time to observe the red head kneeling in front of him. Her long red hair tumbled down her back in loose curls and he itched to reach out and sift his fingers through the silken strands. He watched as one curl slipped in front of her face and she blew out a puff of air trying to get it to move from her line of vision without stopping what she was doing. 

Clint reached out, ignoring the trembling of his fingers, and brushed the stray curl back from her face and tucked it behind her ear. His fingertips ghosted over the soft skin of her ear and Natasha sucked in a startled breath at the contact, her slender hands faltering slightly. He pulled back his hand slowly, trying not to break the moment. Another few moments ticked by in silence before she leaned down and cut the thread with her teeth, her breath fanning over his skin briefly before she pulled back and claimed the bottle of vodka for herself. 

He watched, transfixed, as the delicate muscles in her neck worked with each swallow of alcohol. She stood, and Clint mourned the loss of her heat as she grabbed a clean washcloth from the small linen closet next to the sink and wetted it. She moved back in close, enveloping him in the warm vanilla scent mixed with traces of gunpowder, that was uniquely hers as she gently wiped away the lines of dried blood from his leg.

Once she was finished cleaning his leg, Natasha helped Clint to his feet and moved with him out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, stopping once they reached the bed. Clint lowered himself down on the bed, letting out a small groan as his tired muscles welcomed the soft cushioning, allowing his eyes to close briefly before realizing Natasha had not joined him. 

He cracked open one eye to find her standing just to the side of the bed, indecision warring in her eyes, the bottle of vodka gripped loosely in one hand. Clint scooted his body, making room for her slender body, and patted the space beside him. 

“I promise I won’t bite. I just don’t want to be alone quite yet.” A shadow of understanding passed across her face and she drained the rest of the vodka before setting the bottle on the floor and climbing gingerly on the bed next to Clint, her body heat sinking into him. 

Disjointed thoughts tumbled through his head, courtesy of the vodka he was sure, but suddenly the need to feel her skin under his and her full lips pressed to his pushed every other coherent thought out of his head. In that moment he couldn’t bring himself to think of the consequences, he craved her touch like nothing else before, he wanted to simply feel, to luxuriate in the comforting touch of another. 

He rolled to his side to face the Russian beauty, and found her wide green eyes watching him, no fear in their depths, but curiosity and more surprisingly, hunger. Clint slowly brought a hand up to cup her cheek, gently running his calloused thumb over her smooth skin. Natasha leaned into his touch, her eyes slipping half closed as she moved her hand up onto his solid chest. 

For several long seconds they stayed like that, wrapped in each others body heat, but it wasn’t enough for Clint as he watched her pink tongue swipe across her lips he ached for a taste. Dipping his head low, he hovered less than an inch above her mouth, their breaths intermingling, her emerald green gaze clashing with his, and he could barely make out the faintest sprinkling of freckles across her nose. 

The moment stretched on until Natasha closed the remaining distance and pressed her lips to Clint’s. It started as a chaste kiss, the brief press of lips, but neither agent could deny the sudden flame of need, and Clint deepened the kiss, her lips tasting of honey and he was a man starving. The inferno burned brighter and he tunneled his hand into her thick red curls, pulling her closer for him to devour as her fingernails dug into the muscles of his chest. 

He pulled away reluctantly to pull in a breath and couldn’t help the smile that snuck across his face at her little mewl of disappointment. He pressed his forehead to hers, each panting like they had just finished a marathon. Slowly she opened her eyes, and as he gazed into the emerald depths, glazed over with hunger and need, he knew he was lost. 

“Natasha.” He breathed her name, a plea, a prayer, a promise, and lowered himself for another taste of her decadent lips. She met him eagerly, gasping as his teeth nipped at her lower lip, and he dove inside, his tongue battling with hers, the smoky taste of vodka blending with the taste of vanilla. 

His hands began to roam over her soft shirt, desperate to learn her curves. In this moment he was just a man, no voices, no guilt, his hands tightened their grip, holding onto his lifeline. She gave a breathy moan of satisfaction as her hands traveled from his chest to loop around his neck, one hand buried in his sandy hair, little fingernails digging into his scalp, the tiny pinpricks of pain sharpening the desire flooding through his system.

Then one second he was wrapped in her heat, her lips pressed to his, the next she was gone, the soft click of the door the only sound that betrayed her flight. Clint blinked several times, his alcohol fogged brain trying to figure out what had gone wrong. He flopped to his back, one hand on the quickly cooling space her body had been just moments before and mentally kicked himself. 

His body succumbed quickly to sleep, as exhausted and worn as it was, and he fell asleep with her fading vanilla scent in his nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for Clintasha fluff!!!!! I loved writing those two together, the chemistry is intense!!


	15. Further and Further

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! With the addition of this chapter, I should only have one more to go before we wrap up this story! As always a big thanks to anyone who has read and left comments or kudos, you guys keep me writing!!

As the door clicked shut behind her Natasha was already halfway down the hall, her breathing unsteady and thoughts racing, blind panic consuming her. She pressed a trembling hand to her swollen lips, the feel of Clint’s mouth on hers still fresh in her mind. Absorbed in her thoughts she smacked into the solid chest of a man. Her eyes whipped up, fire sparking in their depths at her uncommon lack of perception and she inwardly cursed Barton. 

“I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out of her mouth, the apology feeling foreign on her lips. Her deep green eyes met the harsh brown gaze of Zane Lynch. Natasha found herself cursing Barton again as Lynch was one of her least favorite people, and she hated that she had revealed an air of weakness around him. 

His sharp brown eyes stared intently at her face, lingering on her lips; noting their swollen, well kissed look, before making a leisurely perusal of her body. Natasha squirmed inwardly under his intense scrutiny, knowing she had the rumpled look of someone who had just been in another’s bed. She hoped that the trainer hadn’t seen her exiting Barton’s room. 

“Is everything alright Agent Romanoff? You seem a little…” He paused slightly, “flustered.” The last word was drawled, the entendre obvious through his tone, and he smirked, obviously happy with himself. Her eyes narrowed, _You can not kill him Romanoff. Phil would be so angry. You can NOT kill him,_ she mentally chanted the mantra, as her hands twitched to hit the bastard. 

“Everything is fine Lynch.” She sneered his name, purposely forgetting to say his title, her own dig at the awful man. “I was just getting a head start on my workout this morning.” She smiled innocently, daring him to contradict her. Lynch simply made an exaggerated gesture of looking at his watch, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise.

“At 3 am?! Well, one does not become a great agent by sleeping in, your dedication is admirable Agent Romanoff.” With that he nodded and stepped around her, continuing his way down the hall. 

Natasha took a brief second to suck in a deep breath of air, and calm the riotous emotions running through her and touched her lips again, hating the flutter in her stomach as she thought of the archer. As she released the breath she started towards the training gym, knowing there was no hope of getting any sleep tonight, she always worked her frustrations away best with a punching bag anyways. 

 

Once Lynch heard Natasha’s barely discernible footsteps disappear down the hall leading towards the training gym, he snuck out from the corner he had ducked behind to observe the deadly agent, his mind spinning with the wealth of information he had just stumbled upon. 

The red haired agent’s lips had definitely been swollen and red, her thick red curls mussed as if someone had their hand tangled in them, and her shirt rumpled, looking like it had been hastily tugged on. And if he wasn’t mistaken she had stepped out of Agent Barton’s room, as his was the last door at the end of the hallway, separated slightly from the others.

His lips curled into a sinister smirk, his boss was going to be pleased with the current turn of events, and the possible implications of a relationship between the deadly Black Widow and Hawkeye. Stepping into his room he went to his bed and located the duffel bag that contained his burner phone. 

Within seconds he had a secure line connected and dialed in the number he had memorized, knowing his boss would pick up, no matter the hour. As he predicted after only three rings a soft click indicated the line had been picked up. 

“Lynch, I trust you have news if you’re calling at this hour.” The deep, smooth voice came across the line. 

“Yes Sir. I have just discovered something that may be of great value to you.” He paused slightly, and when no response seemed forthcoming he continued. “I found Natasha Romanoff sneaking out of Barton’s room only moments ago.” There was a few seconds of silence as the news registered. 

“Natasha Romanoff… The Black Widow?” The voice asked smoothly, no hint of emotion in the tone. 

“Yes. The assassin-turned-darling of SHIELD. Although no one is quite clear on the details of her past, or how she came to SHIELD.” Lynch added the last bit as an afterthought, the lack of enthusiasm from his boss causing him to doubt his choice to inform the man about this development. 

“This is….unexpected. But can be used to our advantage. Thank you for your keen observations Lynch. You will continue to observe and report back to me with any further developments.” 

“Of course sir.” The second the last word was out of his mouth the line went dead and Lynch stared at the phone for several seconds before tucking it back into the duffel and returning the bag back to its place under the bed. He smiled to himself, once Barton was out of the way there would be nothing stopping him from having the Black Widow to himself. 

 

He fell on the floor with a loud thump, landing in an undignified heap, tangled in the blankets, screams still echoing in his head, pain radiating through his abused body. Clint’s heart raced and his shirt was plastered to his skin, damp from sweat. He released a few shaky breaths attempting to calm his too rapid heartbeat before untangling himself from the bedsheets and comforter he had drug to the floor with him as he fell. 

Tossing the sweat soaked sheets haphazardly back onto the bed he limped into the bathroom, grimacing as the movement pulled at the neat line of stitches trailing up his thigh. He flicked on the light, immediately regretting the decision as he squinted against the brightness. He pulled his dirty shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor, the air against his clammy skin causing goosebumps to race over his body. 

Fumbling for the sink, he twisted the knob and bent down to splash cold water on his overheated face. Standing upright again he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and winced. His blue-grey eyes were dull and bloodshot; dark circles and several days worth of stubble accentuated the bone deep exhaustion he felt. 

A flash of crimson drew his attention and he nearly groaned as he saw a trail of blood leaking from the thick bandage running down the majority of his right side, the fall from his bed most likely had popped several of the stitches holding the wound together. Clint released a sigh and peeled back the bandage, pressing his lips together as it pulled the abused skin of his torso. 

As he had predicted several stitches had given way in the middle of the wound over his ribcage. His eyes found the small first aid kit Natasha had left behind when she had fled his room earlier and he grabbed it, finding everything he needed to restitch himself inside. It took several minutes to thread the needle and he cursed his shaking hands, wishing there was some of the vodka from earlier left to help steady him. 

Having finally threaded the needle Clint paused briefly before getting to work restitching the deep gash on his side, his teeth clenched tightly and the needle wove in and out of his tattered skin. Finally finished he took another deep breath before gripping the thread tightly and yanking, breaking the thread. He reached for the towel hanging off the hook on the wall and wetted it in the sink before gently wiping the blood from his torso. 

He tossed the towel on the floor, where it joined his shirt and the other bloodstained towel from earlier, and headed back into his room, his entire body aching and sore. Eyeing the bed with a look of apprehension he knew he wouldn’t be getting any more sleep tonight, a quick glance at the clock on the bedside table revealed it was only a little after four in the morning.

Standing in the middle of the small bedroom Clint debated his next move, he could either go back to the medical wing and get hooked back up to all the machines, or try his luck on the run from Graley and Coulson. A ghost of a grin crossed the archer’s face at the thought of avoiding his handler and the good doctor for the rest of the day and with that thought his mind was made up. 

Clint snagged the comforter off of the bed and hesitated, looking at the knife Natasha had taken from him down at the shooting range, laying on the bedside table. A hazy image of Campos’ grinning face loomed in his mind, the black knife gripped tightly in his hands, blood dripping from the tip. Before the terror took over, his mind flashed him a clear image of delicate hands reaching for the handle of the knife and emerald green eyes framed with long red curls. 

As quickly as the images had appeared in his mind they disappeared and Clint shook his head, trying to clear it. He grabbed the knife before moving to his closet to grab out a thigh holster for the blade, then limped silently from the room, his destination in mind. The stairs proved to be a problem and he had to pause several times to catch his breath, sending a silent thank you up to the heavens that there were no agents to witness his weakness. 

Finally he reached the top of the stairs and hesitated slightly before steeling himself and launching himself up, his hands reaching for the edge of the catwalk that led to the roof access. He let out a grunt as his hands slapped against the metal and gritted his teeth as he pulled himself up and over the ledge, feeling several stitches on his side and back give way again.

“Son of a bitch!” He groaned, closing his eyes, rolling to his back, the thick comforter cushioning him somewhat, and breathing through the pain. After what felt like a few seconds, but in all reality was probably several minutes, Clint managed to push himself to a standing position and continue limping towards the door that led to the roof. 

Pushing open the door that led to the roof the archer paused allowing the cool night air to rush over him, goosebumps breaking out over his skin, and he was glad he thought to grab the comforter. He found his usual ‘nesting’ spot, a tiny, sheltered alcove tucked behind one of the mechanical sheds with a perfect view of the DC skyline. 

He arranged the large comforter and settled himself into his makeshift nest, his body aching and protesting the movement it had taken to get to the roof. But the archer tuned out the pain and took several deep breaths of the night air, and listened to the low rumblings of thunder from the approaching storm. 

Clint settled deeper into the plush comforter, noting with delight that it still held the warm vanilla scent that was Natasha, he allowed the lethargy to wash over him and surrendered to his body’s command to rest. For the first time in weeks the archer slept peacefully to the lullaby of crashing thunder. 

 

The rapid fire sound of flesh slapping against a punching bag echoed throughout the empty training gym. Jab. Jab. Uppercut. Dodge. Jab again. The agent was a veritable blur as she weaved around the punching bag, each jab a little more vicious than the last, her frustration not alleviated by the usually calming activity. 

Her mind kept wandering; she could still feel Clint’s lips on hers, could still see the raw desire and vulnerability in his blue-grey eyes. The way he had breathed her name, like a benediction, kept running through her head. Natasha felt like the rug had been yanked out from under her, the tight shield she kept around her heart weakening with every time she locked eyes with the damaged archer. 

Anger welled up quickly, the safer, less foreign emotion pushing out the softer feelings whirling inside her. The Russian assassin embraced the cold bite of the anger, something she had grown accustomed to during her strenuous training in the Red Room. 

_Don’t go there Romanoff. You’ve had enough memories for tonight._ But try as she might her riotous mind started down the dark path her thoughts had started her on.   
………………………….

_The prick of a needle in her arm made her want to flinch, but Natalia knew if she showed a single sign of weakness there would be hell to pay. So the young red head stared resolutely at the dingy white ceiling, ignoring the doctor moving around her._

_The doctor depressed the plunger on the needle sending a cool liquid rushing through her veins. Within minutes molten fire raced throughout her small body, as her muscles spasmed and contracted due to the serum that had been injected._

_Every sensation was amplified, the chill of the steel table sank into her bones, the brightness of the overhead lamp seared into her eyes, the stringent scent of cheap antiseptic and the coppery tang of blood flooded her nose, causing her stomach to roll uneasily. Her ears rang, the soft scratching from the rats in the walls nearly deafening._

_She bolted upright, arms straining against the restraints attached to the table, trying to escape the flood of sensation, a silent scream trapped in her throat. A large hand wrapped itself around her delicate neck, pushing her back onto the table._

_“Lay still Natalia.” A sharp voice barked as she bucked against the hand holding her in place on the cold steel surface. The voice struck deep within her, bringing flashes of flames and the acrid scent of smoke, and pure terror rampaged through her system. She went instantly limp, hoping desperately the man would not punish her for her disobedience._

_“She appears to be progressing nicely Ivan.” The voice of the man holding her down floated through the quiet room, waiting for the other man’s approval._

_“She will be the perfect weapon. Up her dose of the serum, I want her ready for training tomorrow.” A chill of dread slithered down the small girl’s spine, in training it was kill or be killed._  
…………………….

A particularly hard jab to the punching bag ripped Natasha from the dark memories swirling in her head. She let her hands drop to her sides, the abused knuckles scraped and bloody, and shook her head at the irony, the small timid red head that Ivan had brought in quickly became the most skilled and deadly pupil the Red Room had ever seen. 

The deep rumble of thunder brought her again to the present, and she cursed herself for her continually wandering mind. Stepping down from the mat, she reached for the towel she had draped over the back of a chair and pressed it to her abused knuckles, embracing the welcome sting of pain, allowing it to ground her. 

Glancing at her watch the numerals glowed up at her. At only a little after four AM she still had a little time to get cleaned up and catch some sleep before she would be expected to report down at Barton’s bedside in the infirmary and give Coulson a rundown on the archer’s mental state. 

Blue-grey eyes, full of hope and hunger flashed through her mind, and she could feel her heart softening. A quick mental shake rid herself of the image, and Natasha knew she had to harden herself or risk falling under the archer’s spell again, and she knew she couldn’t afford the distraction of feelings. Resolve strengthened, the former prodigy of the Red Room strode from the gym and disappeared easily into the shadows heading back to her quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me a review, I want to know what you think!!
> 
> Thanks for reading!   
> xoxo


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